


An Alliance of Men and Elves

by avagueidea



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: A couple pre-movie chapters/younger Bard, Bard dealing with elves, Bickering, Elves are Dicks, Explicit Sexual Content, Largely bickering back and forth, M/M, Reluctant King Bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 45,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3613743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avagueidea/pseuds/avagueidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From his first dreamy glimpses in his youth, to the duties of a bargeman trading with the immortal beings, Bard had an unusual amount of contact with the elves that neighbored his town. When dragon's fire forces his people to reclaim their ancestral home of Dale, he suddenly finds himself not just dealing with stubborn dwarves, a broken people, and a war, but also having to confront a majestic King of Elves, in all his pompous glory, who seems set on making him king!</p><p>A look at Bards interactions with Elves over the years (particularly one lovely elven king)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entering the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be two pages of self indulgent fluff and smut. It got a bit out of hand... but I figured I might as well post it, haha.  
> The first couple chapters are Bard when he's younger, then it jumps to post Smaug's death. It's mostly focused on Bard's various interactions with elves, but I get a little side tracked now and again. I hope you enjoy my fandom ramblings all that same!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard is 13, fool hearty, and might have gotten a little lost in the woods. The trip just may be worth the while for the sights he sees, that is, if he ever finds his way out again.

Bard was at that troubling age between being too old to be carefree and too young to be useful. It was an age that simply begged for mischief. As such, it was no strange wonder when he found himself thrown into a situation where a child would have known to fear, and an adult would have known to have caution.

The young man of Laketown found himself deeper in the murky forests than he knew to be wise. At thirteen, he was not a complete stranger to the immense woods that skirted the lake's borders on the south and west. He had dared to skim along its edges now and again, sometimes on a dare, sometimes simply out of curiosity. Never had he been foolish enough to completely loose sight of the edge of the forest and never had he lost count of his paces and which trees he'd turned at, until now. Where were his notches in the trees to mark his path? Why hadn't he broken a twig as he went so he could track his own path back, like an animal's? He turned about once more, before realizing that in doing so he'd lost any hope of knowing which way he'd come from.

The young teen stopped himself and took a deep breath, pushing his messy dark hair back from his face, trying to think clearly. The forest had seemed to call him deeper when he'd meant only to dodge out of sight of the other boys, to claim a bit of bravery. Stupid, yes, but he'd thought he knew the woods well enough. After he'd move behind that tree, and out of the boys' view, the forest had seemed different. It was subtle, but it was more inviting. Certainly passing one more tree couldn't hurt. Unfortunately, one tree had turned into many, and, to Bard's dismay, he had no idea how many 'many' was.

Bard's brow furrowed seriously, foreshadowing a future of early wrinkles from serious expressions. He was just settling into doing some real thinking, remembering which tree he'd last been facing and which he'd come from, when motion caught his attention. His head shot up to catch the movement in the corner of his eye, but found nothing but trees, which certainly didn't pick up and walk around. The stillness was more troubling than if he'd found something, though, because it suggested that the forest might really be playing tricks on him.

A frown deepened on his mouth as he tried to concentrate, but again, just as he did, movement caught his attention and his eyes darted up. He found nothing. His heart was beating a little faster by now, a panic rising in him. He couldn't concentrate and his memory of his trip into the forest had been hazy to start and was fading fast.

The third time the motion broke his concentration, his eyes snapped up in time to catch the barest glimpse of a deer disappearing behind a large tree. Bard sighed audibly, trailing into a single laugh, relief swimming over him that he wasn't going mad, at least. The sound was almost instantly regretted, as it caught the creature's attention, and, as it rounded the other side of the tree, its large unusual antlers and size made it clear it had not been just a deer, but actually a strange, grown elk. It was a terrifying sight at this distance. Bard didn't think that these oddly antlered elk even really existed, now one stared directly at him, not ten paces away. Bard froze, not wanting to startle the huge creature.

By all means Bard should have simply backed away, as slow as possible, and kept backing away until he was out of the majestic creature's sight. He had no means to protect himself if the elk decided it felt threatened, but Bard couldn't help but wonder how it could. It seemed a beast of an elk, or maybe he'd simply never been so close to one before. Regardless, Bard seemed so insubstantial next to its bulk.

The thought seemed to come in a whisper, trailing about in his head, even though every bit of common sense would warn him against it. The elk was so much larger than him though... why would it think he was dangerous? Bard's foot took him in the absolute wrong direction, as he ever so slightly inched forward. It was beautiful, regal and kingly, like it owned the whole forest. The whisper was like the one that had called him to the next tree in the forest over and over before he'd caught himself. It wasn't so much words, but it seemed to speak encouragingly to him all the same, urging him gently forward. He stepped as softly as he could manage, not having lost his mind entirely yet. The elk didn't budge, didn't shift into an aggressive stance; it just stood there, watching the boy creep closer stoically.

Bard kept up this painfully slow pace until he was but a few steps away. Madness it might have been that had brought him this close, but it was no spell but his own daft curiosity that found his hand raising up towards the creatures snout. Up this close, it was clear that the powerful antlers could have swept him aside, probably half a dozen young men like him aside, if it so chose. Instead, it bowed its head to the hand, allowing the mortal boy's touch.

The extraordinary moment passed far too quickly, and the beast pulled away, not violently, but Bard had fallen into such a trans marveling at it that even the casual movement from the elk sent the teen reeling back in panic. His string bean like figure flung itself away, stumbling into a tree, before falling right over a protruding root. This ungraceful flinging was in stark contrast to the quiet retreat of the elk. After the unnecessary adrenaline rush passed, he found himself slightly flushed in embarrassment. He was glad he didn't have an audience, though in his confused state even the rustling of the leaves seemed to contain a light chuckle at his expense. Well, he thought he could deal with the forest laughing at him as it was clearly already playing games with him.

 

He had started into the forest near evening, so he only needed to be lost a couple of hours before the treacherous woods began to darken to an unnavigable point around him. It wasn't winter yet, but the cold night air was settling onto the forest all the same. Starting up a fire before it was too dark seemed like a good idea. Living on a lake, the young man wasn't the most skilled forager, but he still knew what sort of twigs and branches would make good kindling. He set the sticks up with room for the fire to breath once it got started and set to trying to light the twigs. Unfortunately, each time as he got the slightest spark, a harsh breeze came through and snuff it out, or a rustling of leaves would steal his attention and make his fingers fumble and fail to nurse the spark to a full fire. After what seemed an eternity of failed attempts it struck the young man that maybe a fire simply wasn't what the forest wanted. That notion didn't sooth him, as it was playing into the growing feeling that the forest itself had a will, and was imposing it decidedly over the teen.

Bard settled for wrapping his threadbare coat tightly around himself and pulling some leaves together for bedding. Hopefully he kept warm enough and in the morning he could strike out again without tricks of twilight leading him astray.

 

Bard didn't remember falling asleep on a bed of moss, but truly, he hadn't been able to see a darn thing by the time he'd settled down. He was, all the same, pleasantly surprised to find it had cushioned his sleep rather well. Not to mention a bed of leaves had rolled over him as he slept helping to insulate his warmth. Maybe the forest didn't want him dead, even if it still wasn't keen on letting him leave.

And certainly it didn't seem to want him to leave. For every step he took, when he looked back over his shoulders, the forest seemed to have shifted. He felt drained and famished, but the forest provided. Wild berries appeared just as his stomach protested, a stream snaked into his path as he was thirsty, even some wild leafy greens he was fairly certain were safe to eat caught his eye. The food was scarce, but he was not rich, he had gone with less for longer.

Despite the kindnesses the forest afforded him, he was still tired and hungry as the second day drew to a close and he felt more lost than he had started. As night fell again, he felt a hopelessness slowly creep over him along with the chill. Despite his own troubles, he found his mind going to the other boys that had dared him into the woods. He hoped that they hadn't tried to come in after him and become just as hopelessly lost as he was. He hoped they'd just given up to start with, because worse than being trapped in this forest, would be to have others lost for his sake. Certainly they assumed him lost and let it be. That was the smart thing to do...

 

The night grew around him, and as he tried to find a place to settle down for the evening, the young man caught sight of something flickering in the distance. A moment later, the trill of music wafted over. Hope welled up in him, followed almost immediately by dread.

Elves.

It had to be elves. Even as his feet brought him towards the light, the hope, the enchanting music, he knew it was not wise. There was a reason the forest was not a safe place to be, and it was not just beasts that hid in its hallows, or its winding paths. Elves were not keen to help humans who wandered into their lands, and stories seemed to suggest dark fates for uninvited guests. These were not reliable stories about the woodland folk, only the colorful tales of the passing merchants, or the quiet mutterings of the few who traded with the woodland kingdom. Bard didn't imagine they were entirely untrue either, though.

All the same, his stomach and tired feet longed for the fire and song enough that he would risk it. If the forest would not let him go, he might as well see a few good sights before he died! So he crept forward, a building that seemed carved out of the forest itself, elegant and perfect as the old forest, slowly became clear in the flickering lights that came from the grand hall inside. Music like he'd never heard, sung by voices fairer than he could imagine, spilled from the place. As he dared to peek into one of the windows, he found the sight did not disappoint his wildest fantasies. He had never seen a feast so great, nor a people so fair and beautiful. There was not a single one among them that, even in eating and singing, didn't look perfectly elegant in every movement they made. The whole hall seemed to glow with a golden comforting warmth and Bard would have given anything, standing out there in the harsh winds of the autumn evening, to join them.

He should have known better, but he was young and tired, and hopelessly lost, and he had little to loose, if the forest wasn't going to let him go. So he started around the grand building in hopes of finding an entrance. Even in this, though, the forest was not kind to his sense of direction, and, frustratingly, after taking a detour around a tree, he found he had lost the side of the building he had been following. Instead he came across a line of the first plants that seemed intentionally placed in this forest. A clean, neat row of bushes formed a definite wall.

He was trying to find his way around them, maybe back to the hall. He could still hear the faint calling of their songs to his left, but he was stopped by the sound of rustling. He paused, as the rustling wasn't accompanied with a breeze. He caught his breath as he barely recognized the incongruity in time to stop himself from traipsing right into the lovely garden around the edge of row bushes. Trees parted above to let silvery moonlight fall down onto a breath taking creature glad in white and silver, hair just as pale. He was walking so gently he sounded like a soft wind through the clearing. While all of the elves had seemed beautiful in the grand hall, cloaked in golden warmth and song and food, this one was perfect and singular, like a single beam of moon light coming down to grace the garden in person. There was a song here too, but it was too soft, like a whisper on the wind, like whatever had called him to the next tree, or what had coaxed him to pet the majestic elk the day before.

He stepped forward, needing a better view, but did not have the grace of the elf. The faintest sound seemed enough to break whatever spell kept the elf in Bard's sight, for they turned away and back towards the halls of tree and stone. While the garden was still the most magnificent Bard was likely ever to see, it seemed pale and listless in the moonlight in comparison to when it'd been graced by the elf.

Bard sat himself down with a sigh, feeling defeated. He knew now for certain he didn't belong with these beautiful people. The forest would likely just distract him once again were he to attempt to find the hall filled with music and mirth. So he settled down on the mossy ground just outside the garden and pulled his coat tight to himself.

 

The light of the morning was brighter here, likely thanks to the clearing above the garden. As the sun rose, Bard was surprised to find he hadn't dreamt the whole thing. His slumber had been so peaceful it didn't seem possibly he could be sleeping on a forest floor in mid November. He was just in time, stretching out and leaning around the bushes to see if at least the garden had been a dream, to catch in the distance a graceful figure setting out a plate of bread and water, like one might leave a bit of leftovers for a stray cat in the neighborhood. The glimpse was brief, but it solidified the night before as real.

After a safe amount of time Bard carefully crept forward, sneaking to the door. He was sure the bread must have been left for the morning birds, or other small woodland creatures, but Bard would take precedent for today. He grabbed the bread and water, and maybe it was just the day of wandering in the strange woods, but the bread was without a doubt the best he'd ever had in his life. Even the water seemed sweet somehow. It was only a day old half of a loaf, but Bard hadn't felt so full in his memory. He was suddenly sorry he didn't save some for the trip home.

Home was where he should head, too, before he was spotted by the woodland people.

 

The teen set out with an odd sense of sureness, despite the failure of the days before. The morning was spent traversing the woods, picking a direction and seeing if it felt more or less familiar. He'd stopped at a stream around noon, still lost, but kept a positive attitude. To his surprise, he was rewarded for his haphazard wanderings. After a few more hours of walking the trees were thinning. He didn't know how he knew which way to turn, but suddenly the lake, his home, came into view. He picked up his pace, almost running out of the last bit of the forest. He had only been away for two days together, but as he saw the familiar sights he felt relieved. He barely thought to look back at the woods as he bounded towards the boats leaving the shore for the evening. He glanced over his shoulder for a last look at the woods just in time to see a large elk disappearing back into the forest.


	2. The Bargemen and The Elves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard, 16 now, apprentices with the bargeman who trades with the woodland realm, and gets to know the elves a little better.

Bard had gained himself a bit of a reputation from his disappearance into the woods. It wasn't an active sort of thing, but afterward he was always assumed to be a little more worldly than he really was. Everyone seemed to think he hadn't told his whole story. He supposed that that was true, he hadn't. While he admitted to seeing an elven hall and the strange elk, and the treachery of the forest, he'd never mentioned the moon lit elf in the garden. That detail he kept for himself, as if sharing it would somehow spoil the memory of it. It felt fragile and unreal, like a dream that will fade as soon as you try to fully recall it. From this but of secrecy, Bard gained an air about him that he didn't have to do anything to cultivate, except continue to insist that nothing noteworthy had really happened.

It was this reputation that got him his job a few years later. He was hired on as a bargeman’s apprentice, picking up barrels and the like from the woodland realms. The bargeman was getting old and needed a young man for heavy lifting and the like. At 16, Bard was perfect. Usually, if it was just barrels, they were just drifted down for them to pick up. Occasionally, though, if there were goods being traded as well, elves would show up briefly to make the exchange themselves.

The elves he saw while working were still elegant creatures, but they lacked that dream-like quality that he'd seen that night years ago in the forest. It'd be a lie to say he wasn't a little bit disappointed. They all were so serious, like dealing with humans drained them of all their mirth. Even when they showed up, they still kept their distance usually. They gestured whenever speaking was absolutely necessary, and when they were forced to speak, it was brief demands or clarifications.

It wasn't until about Six months in that anything changed. When the old bargeman's back was acting up Bard was left to move all the cargo himself. The teen dutifully worked to trade out all the goods between his boat and the waiting supplies of the elves' quickly. He'd seen these particular pair of elves a few times before. He'd only recently realized that the same pair of beautiful creatures were dourly watching over their trades time and again. They never came down to help, so he supposed, at a distance, they all sort of looked the same to him. To them, to even grace these humans with their presence was to be compliment enough, it seemed to Bard.

There was a lot to be moved that day, and a man short, the teen struggled to get the job done in a timely manner. It was a half hour into the process when one of the two elves exchanged a few quiet words with the other and hopped down from their vantage point. Putting their bow aside they gracefully landed next to Bard. To his amazement, instead of chiding him for being slow, the elf actually picked up a box of cargo and started to move it, tossing long red hair behind their back and out of the way. Bard nearly dropped his barrel to see the immortal being doing hard labor at his side.

It was as the elf was passing a heavy barrel to the human, which Bard was shocked the slight frame so easily hold, that he noticed something. When they slipped close, an astounding misconception suddenly became clear. Bard's elven helper was not a woman, as he'd assumed, but a lovely, lovely woodland man. He suddenly felt ridiculous for making the assumption. He'd known that male elves were pretty, and certainly he had noticed that not all the elves he'd seen in the dining hall were females. For some reason he'd gendered the pretty creature female automatically, maybe for ease of dealing with its beauty up close. The distinction was just not as clear with all those flowing locks and unisex tunics! That certainly wasn't his fault either.

The blush at his ignorance was unfortunately apparent. In their moment of closeness as they passed off the barrel, the elf seeming stoic and cold as ever moving the heavy cargo with him, their eyes caught. Bard had hoped the red of his face could be chalked up to exertion. The elf was more perceptive than that, though, and a slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. To Bard's disbelieve and dismay, the elf actually winked as he dropped the heavy load into the young mans arms. Bard stumbled back, almost loosing his footing at that moment, and rushed away, not to make eye contact for the rest of the endeavor. The boat was, thankfully, almost loaded.

At the end of it Bard had the sense to catch the elf's attention as he was turning away. “Le fael,” he said, sincerely hoping it was elvish for 'thank you' and not just the ramblings of an old bargeman. The older man was fairly certain Bard wouldn't have need to use it, but if he were ever to take over the job, he just might need to have a bit of elvish manners to offer the woodland folk. He offered out a rough, dirty hand which, in retrospect, was probably repulsive to the other.

The elf seemed too surprised to do anything but take the grimy hand, though, which gave him a solid shake. “Pedig edhellen?” the response was skeptical, as the thanks had been given in the ugliest elvish the elf had even heard. At the utterly blank stare he receive in response, the elf shook his head and waved off the question, seeming still quiet amused. “Galu,” he said as he started back up to join his companion.

Bard hesitated before offering a butchered return of the word, hoping it was appropriate. The elf didn't seem offended, but he didn't offer any additional explanation as he left. That was good enough for Bard.

Soon the bargeman in training was sitting back, letting the older man steer them home. He could swear he heard the lightest of laughs falling down from the elf as his helper rejoined the other. Bard certainly wouldn't worry about amusing the immortal woodland creatures. He was sure anything he could do would be silly to them, so why bother trying too seem dignified? At the very least, he felt he'd learned something; the elves weren't always stoic grim creatures in their dealings with humans. That wink had taught him that they had some humor in their hearts, enough to tease a poor young human at the very least.


	3. Carandol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard makes a friend~  
> He also just might see his moonlit elf again.

Nearly a year later Bard was 17 and the old bargeman fell ill just before a trade with the woodland kingdom. If they were to miss the average shipment, someone else could have picked up the barrels for them, but for an actual trade with the elves, they wouldn't deal with just any stranger coming up to their borders. To miss a trade was unthinkable as well, as it would spoil their relationship entirely and likely end any trade possibilities in the future.

It was with equal parts trepidation and determination that Bard set off in the barge on his own. The waters on the way to the river's mouth were becoming more and more familiar by the day. He could maneuver them with growing ease, though he was still cautious when he entered the area of underwater ruins between Laketown and the meeting place with the Elves.

He hoped it was the elf he'd grown to know since their first interaction a year ago. Carandol is the name he'd offered, though when his companion had scowled he wasn't sure if it was because the other elf had offered a name at all or it was some horrible joke of a name. The dry expression had made either seem equally possible. The other elf had not given any name, or even spoken during their interactions. The pair were the most common to over see trades, but not the only ones. No one else had bothered to even look at Bard, even though he'd taken to thanking them whenever they finished a trade. The old bargeman had seemed wary of his talking to them at first, but when no harm seemed to come of it, he just found it amusing.

Carandol was waiting with his stoic companion to his left. He put up a hand and gave a greeting. “Gi suilon,” He called down as Bard tied up the barge.

“Le suilon,” Bard replied, having been corrected to this variation that, from the smug look on Carandol's face, he assumed was some sort of show of respect.

It was late summer and the sun beat down on the young bargeman. He was already overheated from the trip over, and he was jealous of the two elves, relaxing in the shade. He had learned that, while Carandol was more than happy to help him now and again to speed things up, he wasn't going to put himself into the sweltering sun for the likes of the young bargemen. He just smiled and let the teen do his work. It wasn't a particularly large trade, but in the heat of midday, it was still an arduous task, particularly on his own.

“Where's your master, young bargemen?” the elf called down to him from where he comfortably lounged.

“Fallen ill,” he replied simply, pulling off his vest and shirt. He didn't know if this would offend the elves, but it was simply too damn hot today to care and he was already sweating. He wouldn't have a chance to wash these clothes for a while still, so he'd rather them less wretched smelling, if possible.

The elf seemed amused, but he didn't comment on the stripping young man. 

“I am sorry to hear.” The reply was polite, but Bard was never sure how sincere the elf was.

He went on with his work, doing his best to have polite conversation as he worked. He used as much elvish as he'd learned, though it was very little, and every word he spoke he was corrected on the pronunciation, often multiple times. The elf seemed to have lost interest in the conversation as Bard was butchering a particularly lengthy polite phrase he'd been taught a few weeks ago. He assumed the elf was simply too disgusted to go on, as occasionally he would just give up and stop bothering with the teen. Bard had learned not to take it to heart rather quickly.

When he glanced up, sweaty and panting, he realized the real reason for the silence. Both elves were bowing deeply as a grand elk came out of the woods to the landing above Carandol's, an elf sitting atop the beast silently and indifferently scanning over the scene. The elk looked just as large and majestic as the one he'd had the good luck to touch years before. He stared, shocked. While the elves that oversaw him wore greens or browns usually, this one wore silver and white, with hair such a pale blond, it flowed like white gold into the silken clothing. Bard did his best not to gap in wonder. Was this the elf from the garden? He had, over the years, convinced himself that that particular glimpse of ethereal beauty must have been a trick of the forest. Though he wasn't bathed in moonlight, Bard was fairly certain this was the one he'd seen.

When the piercing blue eyes casual made their way to him, sweaty and shirtless, he suddenly became very self conscious of his scruffy teen mustache that hadn't yet filled out, every imperfection and blemish of his skin, and how long and unkempt his greasy dark hair was. He looked a fool, certainly, still out of breath and gaping at the elf lord. He felt it was fairly safe to assume the high rank by the low respectful greetings and bows of the elves. Carandol's companion even spoke in Bard's presence to give this elf a proper greeting. So Bard did the only thing he could think of after tossing his carton aside. He straightened himself up, slicked back his hair and gave the deepest, most formal bow he could, knowing how ridiculous it must look in his current state.

“Hîr vuin,” He hoped it was properly respectful, but he knew it barely mattered. He stood up with a self deprecating smiling, certain this haughty creature would discount him as a miscreant either way. He was an eyesore, but he'd be damned if he would let it bother him. He wasn't going to let the silver clad elf make him feel lesser for what he was. He was a man, he was working hard in this damnable heat, and that was good enough. After the bow he made eye contact for the briefest of moments and he was sure he'd been too bold. It was too late to turn back, though, so he gave a little extra nod of the head, savored thick dark eyebrows raising at him, and turned back to his work, hoisting another crate up and proceeding to ignore the elf lord.

He acted as indifferent as possible, but he couldn't help but steal a glance over to Carandol, wondering if he could pars out the elf lord's reaction from the lower elf's. The expression certainly said something. The elf was somewhere between terrified, reverent, and about to laugh, a smile trying to steal its way onto the corners of his lips as he glanced down at the filthy bargeman's assistant and then back to his lord, discreetly of course.

 

Bard wasn't strung up or even scolded. The elf lord wasn't even so offended he rode off straight away. All the same, he wasn't addressed and he didn't dare make eye contact again. He might be proud enough to not be ashamed of himself, but he wasn't a fool. He had pushed as far as he should here.

The elf lord remained above them for a good ten minutes, though it felt like hours with those eyes on him. He didn't even need to look up to feel them on him. The moment he turned his elk and left, Bard knew. His entire body relaxed from the weight of those eyes being lifted.

 

Bard finished not long after, and he finally looked up to his elf overseers. Carandol caught his eye and was actually smiling, though he seemed to do it despite himself. “That was quite a display, young bargeman.” He assured. His companion would not look at Bard, but that was an improvement to the usual disdainful glares.

Bard didn't know what to say, so he simply shrugged as he pulled his shirt back on. His sweat at least drying quickly in the breeze that had picked up streaming off the lake. Silence made him seem more confident than he actually was.

“I doubt Lord Thranduil will be ceasing his relations with Laketown,” Carandol added. While the comment was in Bard's tongue for him to hear, it seemed directed at his companion, who hrrumphed and muttered briefly in elvish before leaving. Carandol seemed fairly well pleased, though he'd reigned in his expression to a more subdued, elven one.

“Savo 'lass a lalaith,” the elf said, a more friendly seeming goodbye than his usual. He even accompanied it with a little bow of his head.

Startled Bard bowed his head back, and tried to repeat the longer phrase but when he received a shake of the head from the other elf. He settled with “Galu”.

He set off back towards his town in the lake with a jittery energy he didn't know what to do with. He had seen the elven lord again, and this pleased him, even if the situation was less than ideal. The intense stare still left a phantom weight on his back. Still, he pondered on Carandol's last comment, unsure what it meant. Maybe he at least amused the elf king enough not to offend him, but had he been thinking about canceling their trades? He'd loose his career prospects entirely if that happened, so he hoped there was no real danger there.

 

Bard was 20 when the old bargeman officially retired. He was old and his wife had passed many years before. He had a grown daughter, who was now a kindly woman, and married well enough that she had been trying to get him to retire for years. He finally seemed willing when Bard could bring the barge through the treacherous waters with a blindfold on, not that they had tried... for very far.

Carandol had continued to be his main overseer. His companion remained grim and unspeaking over the years, which Bard thought was honestly impressive. He was graced with the Elf Lords presence a handful of times as well. He never spoke, barely even came into view. The silver clad elf simply sat on his steed, watching over the affair. Maybe he was suspicious of the trades going on with humans. Maybe he was simply being an attentitive Lord. Whatever his reason, each time Bard gave the same exaggerated bow, his defense to feeling so inadequate in the King's presence.

As he was now the official bargeman of Laketown's trades with the Woodland Kingdom, Bard felt a little more secure in his future. He was comfortable enough to ask a lovely young woman for her hand. Even though he didn't plan to take more than a day or two off for the occasion, there was still an inauspiciously timed trade that Bard had to ask for a two day delay on. He received a raised eyebrow from Carandol at this request. He might almost dare to call the redheaded elf a friend, as he'd congratulated him earnestly when he had officially taken over as the bargeman a few weeks before.

“I've never heard of Bard the Bargeman requesting a day off. Are you planning to be ill?” the elf inquired curiously, a light frown at the moved date.

“No, no,” Bard smiled warmly, “Rather the opposite. I might have someone to take care of me if I do fall ill,” he offered up. He grinned despite himself, a wide, pleased grin. Everyone had seen the union coming in Laketown, apparently, so he was met with a flood of 'about time's and 'took you two long enough's at home, much to his chagrin. He'd thought his courting had been subtle and charming. It was apparently blatant and bumbling. It was nice to get a surprised reaction, as a second eyebrow joined the first in a surprised expression on the elf.

“A wife?” the elf asked.

“She's almost as pretty as you, Carandol,” Bard replied playfully, not even caring if he was being inappropriate any longer. He was too excited to be troubled with offending elves.

Carandol's laugh came sharp and musical, caught off guard. “Than you are a lucky man indeed!” He calmed himself and nodded to the bargeman, “And she a lucky woman.”

Bard laughed at this, thinking it was a joke, but the elf just shrugged, not retracting his statement. “I'm lucky she'll have me.”

“You're a good human, Bard. You deserve a pretty face and a warm house to go home to.”

Bard snorted.

The elf offered an extra bottle of wine for him and his bride. The elf said something vaguely derogatory about his not being able to appreciate it, but insisted he take it anyway. He might develop something of a proper palette. Bard took the wine and the insult both, nothing able to dampen his spirits.

 

In the years that followed Bard's family grew, as did the danger and secrecy of the woods along the lake's boarders. The elven lord ceased to make even his rare, silent appearances. Bard was surprised how much he missed the presence, cold though it was, when it was gone. The trades happened less often as well, eventually stopping all together. The woods were becoming darker and it worried Bard. Not only was his job reduced to only picking up old barrels floating down the river, and the pay cut that came with the simple cargo, but the roads seemed to be becoming more and more dangerous, and the spiders larger and more bold.

Without Carandol's occasional visits at work, his job became rather lonely. His life became lonelier still when his wife passed giving birth to their youngest of three, Tilda. He loved his children enough to make up for the loss of anything else in his life...


	4. To Be a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set just after the burning of Laketown, Bard tries to regroup his people and find there are expectations of him that he isn't sure he can live up to.

Bard would not claim to be a particularly noteworthy man. While he was aware of his lineage, it didn't matter much in his day to day life. As a boy he was certainly proud to think that he was of a nobler sort of bloodline. He had played at being a soldier and a king. The allure of it all had faded quickly. Bard had found at a young age, when the boys started clamoring over who should get to play the brave prince, he was more likely to keep the peace than vie for the position himself. He was not the sort of boy to fight for a crown, and as he grew older, it became ever clearer to him that he didn't want that sort of power. There were too many games and too many lies. He found that the less you had, the more likely it was that you'd be left to yourself. Being left to himself, his family, his own life, was all he wanted. This, it seemed, set him apart from the average man, though it did not win him renown and riches. He led the community by example and as a mediator for petty disagreements. In this manner, Bard won the hearts, if not the money purses, of the people of Laketown. Thanks to this, for most of his life Bard could rest assured that he and his would never starve, but in the same breath, they would never live in luxury either.

Given his lifetime of leading without ever actually stepping forward, it was not surprising that he was reluctant when suddenly, with the loss of all crafty and greedy men, he was called upon to not just direct the townspeople, but actually take up a title with it. He couldn't claim he had no noteworthy accomplishments anymore, after slaying a dragon, but this didn't seem to merit a crown to him.

The suggestion didn't take long to come up, but his name paired with kingship was easy to ignore from the sniveling deputy, as he thrust his hand into the air. The man was vying for power and would use Bard for his own gains. It was later when the title actually struck him. It came up as he was directing the panicked townspeople towards their only option for shelter for the winter to come, Dale.

 

“It will be quite a thing,” commented the eldest surviving member of the town, a retired old baker, who'd managed to save his family and had lost an arm to dragon's fire to show for it. Despite his wounds he'd insisted on walking, assuring everyone there were those worse off than he. His wounds were better cauterized than anything a healer could do for him, and his legs were perfectly fine. The pain was surely immense, and he was left disfigured as the burns healed and scarred, pulling on his face, but the man had a great fortitude. It seemed that was simply what humans did when faced with tragedy. They soldiered on. They had to.

He'd paused next to Bard as the man directed the people from atop a rock jutting up from the grassy landscape around them. With clear orders he'd taken them from a panicked mob to an organized train of people moving north, supplies that could be salvaged in tow and wounded as well taken care of as possible.

Bard's face was locked in a serious expression as he turned towards the retired baker, it was an expression he wore often in recent years. “What's that, Baker?” Bard asked, not impolite, but clearly busy.

“Having a King of Dale again,” he noted.

“We don't even have a Master, let alone a king, Baker-,” Bard cut off to call out to a group of young people he knew were capable, to help a widow with a sticking wheel on her cart. The group of youths, despite a rebellious age and the weight of loss still hanging about them, didn't even pause a heartbeat before jogging over to follow the command. Bard breathed out a sigh as he turned back to the old man, “We need to survive the winter, not start worrying about titles and politics,” He insisted, “I don't think we'll have a King for Dale any time soon.”

The older man smiled up at Bard, atop a rock, surveying the people, his people. “I think we might well already have one.”

Bard's eyes were busy scanning for more trouble. It took a long moment before his eyes returned to Baker. His brow furrowed so seriously, his mind so set in his task, he was actually taken off guard by the smile that he found on the wrinkled and scarred old face. His mind had to jump back to what comment the old man had made to leave him beaming. Before he had time to come to his senses enough to argue it the old man was already hobbling off to join his family, leaving Bard feeling almost embarrassed at the comment left unrefuted. He didn't have time to worry about that now though. In fact, he didn't have time to worry about anything, as the men at the front were keeping far too fast a pace. It was certainly going to strain the wounded to keep up. He jogged to the head to correct this, leaving the old man's fanciful remarks behind him.


	5. Titles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Thranduil arrives at Dale with food, supplies, and requests to treat with the king. He finds Bard to be a strong leader, but reluctant to take up the title of King.  
> (Ok, so I don't use the actual dialogue from the movie here, just the general sentiment of it and ran with it. Hope y'all don't mind. It's kinda what I do with this whole fic. haha.)

Upon reaching Dale, it became very clear the stone city needed to be re-situated for living. Generations had passed since it was abandoned, and while the stone foundations were strong, the dragon and age had taken its toll. They picked the area of the city which was least crumbled, setting up camp near the market. They didn't take up much of the large city. Laketown's population hadn't just been decimated, it had easily been halved. Boats had ceased finding survivors days before on and around the lake. The count of survivors made Bard want to weep, not for those lost, but in thanks that he had been spared the loss himself. Here he was selfish, he would always be selfish for love of his children. They were what he had and why he breathed. They were also why he continued to keep the towns people in order, though he hoped for someone else to come up and take on the mayoral position soon.

It was only days into their stay and the scavenged food was already becoming scarce. Bard may have kept the towns people from stealing rations from one another thus far, but he knew that he couldn't keep that up if they didn't find a way to feed themselves soon.

He spread the word that rations were to go to the women, children, and wounded. Sending the young and able bodied to give the warning. Rations would be cut down, they'd salvaged much less than was hoped for from the town. It was as if on cue that there was a wave of murmurs suddenly about him. Gasps and gossip rushed through the ruined streets.

The elves had come.

 

Bard rushed to the market place where the hubbub seemed to originate. There stood, in all his glorious grace, the silver clad elven king atop his grand elk. King Thranduil looked over the ruined people and gestured back to carts of food behind him. Behind that laid an unending line of golden warriors. An elven army in tow with food for his dying people. Bard didn't know where to start evaluating this.

His eldest daughter, Sigrid, had found her way to her father's side. Wiping her hands off on the dirtied apron around her waist she looked on as the King of Mirkwood bestowed his gifts upon the homeless people. “The great elf king appears at our doors to give us wine and salad.” her tone was dry, but not humorless. Her point was clear, the people needed blankets, bread, and medicine, and the gifts seemed superfluous. A smile tugged at the corner of Bard's lips. The girl had his sense of humor and practicality, that was for sure.

“An army as well,” Bard noted to his daughter.

“Aye, and for what purpose?” She asked, glancing up at her father, her humor giving way to concern.

“That... I don't yet know. Though I hope we don't find ourselves in the middle of an old war,” he said warily eying the line of soldiers trailing out of the market place. “We are in no position to refuse gifts, though.”

He started down from his vantage point, noting as he did the supplies being taken off the carts, “And see there-,” he said, reaching up to help his daughter down, though he knew she didn't need it. She took her Da's hand either way. “Potatoes hiding under the leafy greens. Those will keep better, certainly. Ahh, and turnips.” He added, knowing the reaction he would get.

The girl might have been nearly 16, but she made a face that made her look much younger. His heart eased at seeing her for a moment like a child again. His children were all growing up too fast for his liking. Just days ago she'd been covered in the blood of both those she could help and many she could not. She'd proven a stronger woman than he'd known as the days passed and she learned to stitch and cauterize wounds too gruesome for Bard's eyes. He was glad older healers had had the decency not to make her do any of the amputations at least...

He leaned forward to kiss the top of her head. “Go find your brother. Tell him to see if he can get me a count on how many troops this King of Elves has brought.” Sigrid nodded dutifully and headed off.

 

Bard walked over as King Thranduil continued to ask for the Master of Laketown, which seemed wholly inappropriate. Laketown was no more. Even if The Master's bloated corpse hadn't been found in the waters the day before, there still would be no Master of Laketown. 

Bard stepped forward instinctual to treat with the King. He briefly wondered if the Elven lord made his troops wear gold simply so he could look all the more splendid in silver. He was in armor, riding into Dale as a warrior, but managed still to look light and elegant in the full plate.

The King's eyes found Bard, who strolled up with intentional casualness. He ignored the chill up his spine from the icy blue stare boring down on him. “King Thranduil, we thank you for your kindness. We are badly in need of supplies for the winter, though I fear we have nothing to offer you in return.”

Thranduil's stare did not lose its intensity as he looked over the man. As every time he'd seen the bargeman in the past, Bard was tired and grungy. Bard stood unflinching in the gaze.

“I asked for your Master, not your bargeman,” he addressed the people, but his eyes had locked on Bard. Was that a challenge to him? Possibly more strange, did the King of Mirkwood remember him? It had been more than a decade since he'd last ventured out to watch a trade, and Bard couldn't believe he was that memorable to the king.

Bard's shoulders rolled back, taking on the challenge, “My barge is lost to dragon's fire, my lord, as was the Master of Laketown,” he replied smoothly, “I will treat with you on behalf of my people.”

The elf's lips tipped up ever so slightly, amused. “I suppose I should have been asking for the King of Dale instead, shouldn't I have?” he asked. Bard frowned. He mocked him, but Bard had learned not to take the words of elves to heart. The King was dismounting and ignoring the awe filled gazes of the townspeople that had paused from snatching up supplies for a moment. Bard itched to make sure the supplies were being distributed fairly, but he knew that he couldn't just drop the conversation at hand.

“There is no King of Dale, only me and my people, King Thranduil.” Bard kept his eyes locked onto the King's, surprised at his own fortitude. 

“Not the master, not the king, then why am I to speak with you, bargeman?” he asked, stepping up to him. He was taller than Bard. Somehow he'd never thought he'd be taller than him.

Bard swallowed at being so close to this mythical figure from his childhood. He shrugged, gesturing about, “Who else would you have speak with you?”

The cold eyes glanced up and down him, “No one else, indeed” he agreed. He turned about back towards his stead. “Come then, we will speak in my tents. I have much to discuss with the Bargeman of Dale.” he assured, the golden guard gracefully parting as he stepped through it, the grand elk following at its king's side with only a gentle hand on his side.

Bard bit back any further protest at the title and took a moment to call to a few good men and women of the town. He instructed them to watch the distribution of the food and, he thankfully noted, more supplies, which had been hidden under the greens and jugs.

 

Bard managed to catch up to the king just as he left the city gates, hiding his heavy breathing as he fell into pace next to him. What breath he caught was pulled back out of him as he saw that the king didn't just come with an entourage, or even a legion, but what looked like an entire elven army, already setting up camp outside of Dale's walls.

“Do you expect a war?” Bard asked, eying the king.

The king smiled placidly, “I simply intend to make it clear that a fight would be... futile,” he replied without missing a beat. Bard's expression didn't lighten.

Thranduil walked them to a large white tent, already set up and waiting for him by some feat of elven magic and efficiency. He gestured for Bard to walk inside, his steed stopping knowingly next to the door. As Bard walked past the large Elk to reach the tent, the creature nodded his head and the man unconsciously raised a hand to pet it, surprising even himself after the moment had passed. Thranduil's dark eyebrows were raised curiously, and Bard almost tried to sputter out an apology. He wasn't even sure what he'd apologize for, 'I'm sorry I pet your elk without permission'? No. So, instead he kept his expression stoic and walked inside. The king followed after, silent as well.

 

“Tell me, Bargeman,” the title was used as a slight, and Bard interrupted.

“Bard,” he stated.

Thranduil looked to him dryly “Bard the Bargeman,” he corrected, unrelentingly punishing him for not taking on the title of king.

He desperately wished the elf king weren't so grand in person. He had hoped that, close up, the elf would have lost his mystique. Unfortunately, Bard found himself watching every fluid movement he made. His eyes darted to follow his hand as he flourished it and his hips as he sauntered forward with a fluidity that seemed unnatural. It all made his insults damn hard to contest time and again when the human needed a half hour to just stare a him and, hopefully, become desensitized to his unearthly qualities.

The silence the king took as acceptance of the insult and moved on, “What will your people do? Reclaim this kingdom? Take the mountain?” He strode around the furnished tent with ease, as if it were his throne room. It did, in fact, already have a throne at one end of it, along with a couple of tables, chairs, tall elegant candle holders ready to be lit that evening, and a pitcher of wine already waiting for him on a small table next to the throne.

“I am not concerned with the dwarves' mountain,” Bard assured and ignored the incredulous look from the King, “I am concerned with my people surviving the winter; with the wealth promised to them.”

“So it is their gold you want,” Thranduil assessed.

“Not more than what is owed my people,” He said sternly correcting the king, “Only what we've paid for with our home and our blood already. Wealth enough to rebuild our lives.”

The king's expression softened slightly, smugness fading as the answer was not filled with any of the characteristic greed he'd found so common in men. Not to mention the man spoke with the authority of a king. It'd been long since any mortal had dared contradict him so flagrantly. “Rightfully yours indeed,” He agreed, watching the human more carefully now.

“And your intentions?” Bard asked, growing in confidence as he spoke. This elf was no different than the rest. He looked down on his people and that sparked a fire in the man's chest. He might not have spoken so aggressively had he not felt injured for his kind. “We would not turn away your help, but your army at the gates of my city is not a subtle statement, Lord Thranduil.” He assured grimly, “I think your intentions must be laid bare before we can treat in earnest.” He knew he was over playing his hand. The elven king was offering his broken people desperately needed food and supplies, and he had only a few dozen unwounded men left from the town. He had little to offer and less to fend off the elven force with.

Thranduil nodded at this bold statement. He certainly knew it was all bluster, but he did the man a kindness and didn't say as much. He walked calmly to his throne. “I hold a claim to a treasure in the mountains as well, Bargeman,” he started,

“Bard,” the correction was sharper than intended.

“Bard the Bargeman,” Thranduil corrected with intentional obtuseness. He continued on as if he hadn't been interrupted, and didn't allow for Bard to complain further, “There are jewels in those halls, jewels of starlight that belong to my people.” He poured wine as he spoke, and offered a glass to Bard, who took the golden goblet reluctantly. “I would have them returned to me.” He sipped his own wine, “You see, I am only looking to take what is rightfully mine as well.”

Bard was silent a moment, this didn't sound unreasonable. “Then let me talk with the dwarf and he will give us what is rightfully ours,” Bard said surely.

“You are a fool if you think a dwarf would part with a single gold coin for your people,” Thranduil spoke with surprising spite for the usually tranquil, immortal being.

Bard frowned deeply again, “I believe as king under the mountain, Thorin will not start his reign by backing down on his promises,” he said slowly. Ignoring the incredulous look from the other who sipped his wine, letting Bard continue. “I believe he will be honorable,” He started, but leveled a hard stare at the elf, “but not if presented with an army at his gates.”

Thranduil sighed dramatically, gesturing with his goblet, “Then I give you leave to try. Speak sense into a dwarf coveting gold, oh silver tongued bargeman.”

This was getting tiresome, “Bard,” He nearly growled the words.

The elf laughed and sipped his wine, waving off the correction entirely this time.

Bard sipped the wine presented to him grimly. He wished it wasn't the best wine he'd ever tasted, albeit too strong to finish the cup on an empty stomach. Even more so, though, he wished the elf's allure had ceased when he'd proven as pompous as the rest of his kind (save maybe for his red headed once overseer), but his dreamy visions of Thranduil in his gardens still plagued his mind.

“I have duties to attend to, King Thranduil, Boe i 'waen,” The bargeman didn't mean to slip in the elvish, but the habit had resurfaced from a decade back, treating with Carandol. He was surprised he remembered any of it still.

The king seemed surprised too, though he recovered smoothly. “A man of your people you are,” He noted, “Too dutiful to finish wine with a king that just brought your people food?”

Bard hesitated, he wouldn't be level headed after the glass, he knew. He wondered if the elf knew as well. “There is a lot to be seen too, and I have a dwarf to convince the elven army at the foothills of his mountains means him no harm,” he replied, dryly, “I think a glass of wine might be asking more of me than I have time for at the moment.”

Thranduil conceded the point with some amusement in his pale eyes. “Then another time,” he suggested. Was that regret in the kings tone? Bard shook his head, but didn't argue. He took another sip of wine, despite his better judgment, and this pleased the king well enough.

When Bard took his leave Thranduil gestured and unseen attendants came forward with a few packs of supplies for Bard. “For you and yours” Thranduil explained at the confused look.

 

It was not much later that Bard had found himself a horse and was bidding Thranduil wait for him back near Dale as he rode ahead to treat with the King Under the Mountain. He'd been surprised how natural it felt to ride next to Thranduil on his Elk. It seemed like he should feel inadequate in his presence, but the two of them felt natural side by side somehow. He even took the new title of “Bard the Peacekeeper” in good humor before he road off to speak to the dwarves. He was certain he could earn it, how could his simple request be refused? Particularly when the alternative was so grim...

 

Much to his chagrin the conversation with Thorin went worse than expected. In fact, Bard was taken aback by the blatant refusal from the dwarf to keep his word. As he road back to the waiting Thranduil, and the king gave him a knowing, apologetic glance. He could still hardly contain his anger. The dwarf was a fool, and worse yet, condemned his people without a second thought.

 

When he was invited back to the king's tent, Bard wasn't in the mood to refuse drinks, and on a fuller stomach than he'd had in days, thanks to the king's supplies, he wasn't quite so wary of the thought.

“I warned you,” Thranduil commented as he poured the man wine. “The dwarf is not able to be reasoned with.” He put the drink in Bard's hand, his soft fingers brushing against Bard's hands as he did. Bard ignored the odd flip of his stomach at the contact in favor of anger.

“He's a fool,” Bard gripped somberly.

Thranduil nodded at the man's anger, pleased it matched his own. “You did your duty,” The king assured, “You offered him a chance to pay his debts, but he forsook your people, Dragonslayer,” Elven eyes watched Bard for a reaction to this new title. He'd gotten the full story, or as much as he could have gotten of it from townsfolk who watched from burning buildings, between their first encounter and now.

His reaction didn't disappoint; he nearly sputtered out his wine, having to cough and clear his throat. He took longer than before to offer up his correction, “Bard.”

“Dragon Slayer Bard,” Thranduil corrected casually. Bard didn't know why this title embarrassed him. Certainly he couldn't argue it. He had slain a dragon, after all, pierced its weakened hide and brought the beast down. It felt too grand for him still. What game was the king playing at with these titles?

Thranduil noted his disapproval and sat himself down in his throne, looking over the bowman. He'd thought, at learning it was his bargeman who'd slain the beast, that this title he might allow. He was still so reluctant though. He tried again, “Then how about Elk Tamer,” he offered in jest, waving his goblet. With no response the elf's tone was almost exasperated, “You must take some titles you've earned, or I will have nothing to call you, Human,” He spat out the term as distastefully generic.

Bard swallowed down his insecurities to respond only with, “Elk Tamer seems a little far fetched, don't you think?”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, “Do I? Not half my personal guard can lay a hand on my Elk. He is very particular,” He stepped back up in a fluid motion, moving towards Bard, who sipped his wine in attempts to remain casual. “And he has liked you, human, for many years now.”

Bard was suddenly certain that it had, in fact, been the same elk he'd seen when he was just thirteen in the woods. His eyes must have betrayed his wonder, because an amused chuckle followed.

“You are of noble blood, Dragon Slayer,” The elf was closer to him than he strictly needed to be, and his voice low, “And you have a people now.” When had he finished his glass of wine? “You will have to come to terms with your place as King here sooner or later.”

“I... will be what my people need me to be,” he conceded some ground, and that was enough to win him a refill on his wine.

“They need a king.” Thranduil informed, his hand over Bard's as he filled his cup.

“A leader,” Bard corrected, not sure why he was so determined not to take on the title anymore himself. He felt he had to fight, maybe more so because the elf pushed for it, seemed so single minded in it. Maybe it was because the elf was also now pushing into his personal space, lingering there long enough that it must be intentional.

They were suddenly apart, the closeness dissolving more slowly than the elf's actual retreat. An attendant had entered to inform the king of something, and he wasn't sure when the king had made it to the other side of the tent. Bard set aside the wine determined not to make a fool of himself, for he was clearly already disposed to without the help of alcohol.

He attempted to excuse himself as the king seemed busy. He thought he could slip out unnoticed. The quiet farewell was caught and not accepted. With a casual wave of his goblet, Thranduil bade the human come over to him to listen to the new information. Just like that, Bard found himself part of the King of the Woodland Realm's council, in fact, his only council. He found it odd how easily he fell into the roll, looking over maps and giving advice where he could. When the elf wasn't teasing, he was attentive and looked to be a good leader. Bard could respect that. Thranduil seemed to honestly consider Bard's words and offered his own advise with surprisingly little condescension towards the human.


	6. Unexpected Offers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard receives a few unexpected offers

It was hours later, early evening, and Bard still found himself constantly called back to the kings company. When he was not making necessary preparations for the battle that now seemed inevitable, he was expected to be at the king's side. Bard found it hard to believe that elf was truly fond of his company, but he had sent someone to fetch him back periodically and looked thoroughly displeased each time he'd had to leave.

Bard was ready to be annoyed at the dozenth time he was brought back to the tent, but the summons came wait an actual reason. A wizard, cloaked in gray, entered soon after. Bard might have shown the wizard more politeness, but he didn't presume to contradict this ancient creature in his treatment of another ancient creature. Bard was well aware that there was much he couldn't understand in their relationship. He could only attest to the stubbornness of the dwarves and his attempts to dissuade them from this destructive path.

Bard was amused with Thranduil more than anything else during the conversation. The elf's brazen rudeness was fantastic, honestly. The immortal being actually rolled his eyes as the wizard spoke, glancing to Bard with the most exaggerated disinterest he could imagine on the face, before perking back up in feigned interest when the wizard looked back to him. He turned away as the wizard spoke, and poured wine only for Bard and himself. Which Bard took, though thought better of drinking. Bard honestly would have laughed at the elf's demeanor, if the situation at hand wasn't so grim, and his people still in danger.

 

Bard might have been worried at the warning of orcs, but Thranduil didn't seem to take the threat seriously at all. After the wizard had left, Thranduil sat back in his throne with a sigh. “Mithrandir is not through with us.” he noted sighing as he leaned to the side. Bard raised an eyebrow at the comment. “Wizards always come, riding in just before the storm hits and point to the dark clouds blowing in, as if they were a profits for seeing the rains when the storm is on your doorstep.” He paused, “We will not find respite from him ere this is over.” He seemed fatigued from the future interruptions before they even happened.

 

The next visitor, coming as night fell, was even odder. A halfling man came with an offer that changed the course of events much more than the wizard's appearance. Suddenly, they had a bartering chip greater than honor or the well being of men, greater even than threat of death. They had the Arkenstone, the prized jewel of Erebor. It was unceremoniously plopped down on the table in Thranduil's tent, offered to him freely, to the shock of the wizard, the elven king, and Bard.

The halfling gave the stone out of respect for the dwarf he had journeyed with. That made Bard wonder if the treasure really did have a sickness about it, for he saw no other reason that this sincere creature should have to resort to theft and treachery. Even he had a hard time thinking the dwarf so unfeeling he could not be swayed by the halfling's honest entreaties.

Both Mithrandir, or Gandalf as the halfling referred to him, and Thranduil eyed the stone warily, laying atop the simple linen it had been hidden in. There was a glimmer of desire in the eyes of the King, Bard thought, but it passed and he waved for Bard to take the stone. “It will be yours,” he assured, “To revise your offer from this morning.”

Bard was shocked at the stone so freely given, first by this hobbit, now by the king of elves to him. He wrapped it again in its linens and put it in a pocket inside his warn jacket, nodding to Thranduil.

 

They all dispersed after their meeting, busy with preparations for the worst, though with the Arkenstone, bloodshed should have been avoidable. Bard was still readying any able bodied men to fight come morning. He would not have the elves standing alone if it came to a battle, even if his men would be a ragtag team in comparison to the golden soldiers.

 

It was late, and though he had not been summoned there, Bard found his feet bringing him back to Thranduil's tent, out of habit, certainly. He thought he should knock, or have himself introduced, but he had been in and out of the tent so often that day, the guards ignored him, and there wasn't an easy way to knock at a tents flap. So he entered and hoped it was not too rude without an invitation.

Thranduil looked up from a table of papers he was leaning over and raised an eyebrow. “Master Bowman?” Thranduil asked, and might have been a little surprised to find this title didn't seem to ruffle any feathers in the human. He would have to try harder...

“Lord Thranduil.” He nodded politely, but found he had nothing to actually discuss. “The people of Dale-,” it felt odd to call them that, but odder to say they were of Laketown any longer, “are prepared to march with you tomorrow,” He said mostly to make his appearance not entirely pointless, “if it comes to that,” he added.

Thranduil paused, then nodded in thanks. Bard found himself fidgeting. He cleared his throat, after a long silence, intending to make an excuse to leave, but Thranduil beat him to speaking.

“Sit with me,” he said, setting his papers aside and walking towards his throne, gesturing for him to follow. There were less grand chairs about it and, as always, wine waiting.

Bard was offered a cup, and he took it, even if he didn't plan to drink it. Thranduil rarely seemed to be without a cup of it to sip on, and Bard was impressed with his constitution, as he never seemed even tipsy. Bard would have passed out by noon if he tried to match him.

As Thranduil hadn't taken a seat yet, Bard decided to take the one to the throne's right. It seemed appropriate. He got a disproving look as he sat and found himself frowning back.

“You've taken my chair, Bargeman,” Thranduil chided.

Bard was taken aback, but somehow the only thing he could think to respond with was “Bard.”

“Bard the Bargeman,” Thranduil said.

With a petulance he knew was childish, Bard repeated himself, “Bard.”

“Bard the Peacekeeper.”

This time he was certainly mocking him, and he wasn't sure of the reason. “Bard.” Was all he could let out of his mouth, unless he opened the floodgates and every crude name for an elf came rushing out of him in retaliation. He was on his feet face to face with the Elven King now. What was he going to do? Fight his only ally the day before he confronted the dwarves? Over name calling? He was shocked at himself.

“King Bard,” Thranduil stated, so solidly that Bard even believed it for a moment, standing toe to toe with this immortal being. “I would have you the king of Dale before any other man.”

“I am not Girion,” Bard insisted, “Not his son, or his son's son,” he reminded the elf. He was not the noble stock of his ancestors.

“I would not have you king for your father, or your blood,” Thranduil insisted. “I would have you king for you; for the good of your people.”

Thranduil spoke with such apparent sincerity that Bard didn't know how to respond. He simply stood there, remaining definitely in the King's personal space, unable to retreat and awkward without the anger from a moment ago.

 

Thranduil did something unexpected then. His fingers, smooth and nimble, grabbed the scruffy man by the jaw and pulled him forward. The firmness of the grip startled Bard, even if he knew he was a warrior as well as a king. Their lips met and every stray thought of the silvery figure in the garden, the haughty elf watching over his work, the king who would roll his eyes at wizards, and flirt with mortal men; they all wove together in his brain into something, he found, he definitely did want to kiss. Thranduil was something he wanted to kiss and hold and conquer, and the realization startled him. 

He took too long to come to this conclusion. Having stood stark still against the king's kiss won him only a parting of their lips.

“I apologize. You have a wife,” Thranduil stepped back, despite his words, entirely unapologetic, but rather simply cold. His expression slowly iced over as flirtation politely left his demeanor. The change was harsh and brought to light just how friendly the elf had been acting.

“I am left with three lovely children and her memory,” Bard found himself able to sputter out. The weight of the comment had hit him hard, and to say she had passed away was still not in his heart all these years after, but the correction seemed necessary.

The tension in Thranduil eased, but only minorly. The look he received was sympathetic and incredibly sad. A hand slipped to his shoulder, and the comradely between them grew in a quiet way as he saw the same loss in his pale eyes, though he did not speak it. Not knowing what else to do, Bard laid a hand on Thranduil's shoulder as well, offering him as soft a smile as his lips knew how to make.

There was a silence between them, as their hands didn't move from one another, Bard unsure how to end the interaction, and Thranduil seeing no apparent need to. Bard's hand hesitated on pulling away, much less confident than when it'd been placed there originally.

The silence left him to his thoughts, and he found himself wondering if it'd be entirely inappropriate to resume that kiss from some long moments ago. It wasn't an entirely selfish want either. He desperately wanted to give the other a distraction. Even if the king had warmed up again, it was a sad warmth, barely spring sun breaking through winter's grips, with still a fair chance at another snow. He wanted to banish what sad thoughts were creeping in to consume him, for he knew what loss could do to the heart.

“King Bard, huh?”

The brumal eyes fluttered and something flickered back alive in them. Thranduil remained silent, but his eyes were present now.

“Do you think these people would have me take on such a title? Don't you think it's asking them a bit much to see a bargeman as their king?”

Thranduil shook his head, “You have already won their hearts, Bard. They look to you to lead,” the use of his name found his heart fluttering despite himself. It was just his name, for valor's sake. It was just his name though. There were no games this time. He was serious. His deep voice struck Bard with its regal nature. To hear his name spoken like that, well, it was more convincing than the rest of the elf's arguments that he should be king put together. A sly smile reached Thranduil's eyes, if not his lips, “But if they are not convinced, the title of Dragon Slayer might help your case.”

Bard let out a breath he'd been unaware he was holding and it came out as a laugh. It tumbled into a full chortle before he could help himself. “Aye! That it might, Lord Thranduil. That is might,” he agreed.

The ice had broken in the blue of Thranduil's eyes and this set Bard at ease. He found himself stepping back, his proximity truly seemed impolite now. He moved back towards the chairs to sit, and found the one behind him to be the large throne only after he'd started to sit. It was too late to stop the motion by the time he'd realized.

“You are in my chair,” Thranduil repeated his complaint from earlier.

Bard sighed, exasperated, “You invite me to sit and you complain every chair I take.”

“You pick poorly.”

“If I am not to take the throne and am not to sit to its side...” He paused, frowning up at Thranduil, not moving from the throne even as the silver clad elf loomed above him. “I don't see why you've called me over to sit, if I was clearly to take a seat across the tent from you anyway.” He leveled a glare that Thranduil was more than able to respond to in kind, despite the benign reasoning he went on to explain.

“I had laid my cloak on that chair.” An elegant hand gestured to the first chair chosen, which indeed bore Thranduil's elegant leafed cloak, “For I planned to have us sit as two kings, not one above the other,” He added, looking Bard up and down in the throne.

Bard had been so ready for a new fight, he was taken off guard by the casualness of the explanation. He shook his head all the same, “You fight so hard to give me a title, I think I've taken to the idea finally. The seat is rather comfortable,” he shifted his position to lounge in the throne a little more comfortably.

Thranduil raised a dark eyebrow at the boldness. The bowman took a relaxed posture over the chair, leg's spread, hands rolled over the armrests, owning the entire throne. It was vulgar and childish and entirely charming. He wanted to reward the bowman rather than punish him, but the action was certainly entirely out of line.

Bard caught a glimmer in Thranduil's eye that unsettled him, not to mention the contemplative silence that the elven king loomed over him in, looking down, unfaltering. The comfortableness in that piercing silence was something that must come with his hundreds, or even thousands, of years of living, because it unsettled Bard to stay so long in that tense atmosphere. On the other hand, maybe it was just Thranduil's talent to stare straight through a man so casually. Gods graced him with the eyes for it, to be sure...

Bard unintentionally matched Thranduil's intense gaze by staring into his eyes like a damn love struck teenager. It was shameful, truly, and Bard would have been upset with himself, if it didn't seem to win him some respect. Yet again he learned that saying less left people to imagine a great deal more than the truth. Rather than lost in the dreamy recollections of his youth, Bard was a stalwart man, standing up for his kingship!

“Come now,” Thranduil broke first, stepping back and offering Bard his forgotten glass of wine again.

Bard stood, leaving the chair to accept the wine. He'd challenged the king of the woodland realm enough for tonight, or at the very least, his eyes had melted back to their usual intense watery blue. He was satisfied that he'd distracted him enough to banish that sad distant look.

“If I am to be any use tomorrow, I shouldn't.” Bard said, despite the cup already being in his hand. He had taken a sip without thinking, but he stayed his hand after that.

“I forget men's constitutions are so weak,” Thranduil said with a sigh, downing that last bit of his goblet and reaching long, elegant fingers out to take Bard's cup back.

“We have not had hundreds of years of drinking to work up our tolerances, I'm afraid. Though, after my people are safe and I can rest assured a splitting headache and foggy mind won't bring on a war, I might offer you a proper run for your money,” he knew it was a lie, but he was too preoccupied to think up a clever and candid retort.

The elf king had turned the cup with his long fingers to take a sip, and Bard was certain it was from just where he'd had his lips. His mind returned to the kiss from earlier, and he revisited the thoughts that had formed before their sad comradely had come to light. He was thinking again about this ethereal creature as something he might just be able to win. He'd felt the strength of his grip on his jaw, and that had solidified him in his mind. Their lips coming together had made the moonlit figure something attainable. He was forced to confront something now that Thranduil wasn't a dreamy recollection, a figure that would come into his life and fade out again like mist without a word; he wanted him. He might even be able to have him, if only for a fleeting moment. He'd stumbled into a situation where he could stand at the foothills of this ancient king's glory, and from this height he might just be able to grab his coattails and draw him down to his level for a few moments.

He'd ignored the words from the king until he heard a light laugh breaking him from his scheming, “What was that?” he asked

“The wine has already taken its toll on you, it seems, Bard the Bowman,” It was spoken softly, the title a kindness, as he knew Bard could accept this name at least. “It has been an eventful day, though. I'm sure you have much weighing on your mind.”

It was such a kindly given out for the man, excusing his rudeness, and even giving him a good reason for his inattentiveness, though an entirely false one. He should be embarrassed to ignore everything that should be worrying him: treating with the dwarf again, the potential of war, the gem worth a kingdom tucked into his breast pocket. Instead, Bard was contemplating how to get away with kissing the woodland king. He was only human, after all, and after the day he'd had wasn't he entitled to a frivolous thought or two before he forced himself to try to sleep?

He was ignoring Thranduil again. Bard snapped his attention back quick enough to catch enough of the comment to piece it together, “-will let you go, so you may rest,” Thranduil was finishing.

Bard realized his face had turned into a very serious scowl and he tried to lighten it, though now he was frowning for being dismissed before he could enact some plan to find his way back to the elf's lips.

“I suppose rest would do me well,” he agreed. He needed to focus.

Thranduil smiled at him slightly, “May you be less troubled next we meet to drink, King of Dale,” he said with a surprisingly reverent nod of his head.

Bard, startled by the gesture, couldn't think of anything to say in response, so he just nodded back a bit deeper, almost falling into a half bow, before heading to leave the tent.

 

Bard thought he wouldn't sleep at all, but returning to the little make shift home he'd made for himself and his children, he found the lot of them already quietly asleep. Bain had drifted off next to the door, slumped forward in a chair, old sword he'd scavenged leaning against his leg. He worried over the boy wanting to fight so badly, but snoring away in his attempts to watch the door, he seemed innocently playing a soldier. If the day went well there would be no need for him to do anything but play at being a soldier. Even if there was reason to fight, Bard would have the boy here with his older sister to watch over him, rather than running about with a sword. He was too young for all this nonsense.

Sigrid had set up the girls' bed near the fire. They used a few blankets, but they relied on the quietly crackling fire and their huddled warmth, kindly leaving the heavier blankets for the boys, who took the less ideal bedding areas. It was practical and thoughtful, and put Tilda between her body heat and the warmth of the fire. She was always practical and thoughtful and would not back down if he'd tried to argue with her. He would lay half his blankets over the girls nonetheless. She could scold him in the morning.

Right now, Bard was just happy to see his family, looking safe and cozy, making this new place their own. It suddenly seemed possible that this place really could be their home, one day. This cold, still, stone city might somehow become as much home to them as their swaying lake town had once been... Maybe.

He led his son, barely waking enough to stumble to the bed prepared for him. He laid the blankets over him, and an extra over his daughters, kissing all three of their forehead, like he had every night when they were babes. He took the remaining blanket and fell asleep with surprising ease.


	7. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle may be won, but Bard is faced with the price...

Bard had known it would come to battle after Thorin's cold refusal, despite the Arkenstone. What had come to pass, though, was far more terrible than he could have imagined. Orcs were not the foe he had imagined he would deal with this day. It was as the wizard had warned, though...

A battle consumed Dale, orcs flooding through his streets. As soon as he'd learned the market was in danger, where his son and daughters were, any thoughts of leading his handful of men was put aside for the time being. When he'd returned, his children tucked away, save for the son who refused good council and bounded after him, he found a dozen good women fighting along side his men, and golden clad warriors speckled through the crowd. The elves, he could not deny, were good for a half dozen men each, easily, some worth many more, slicing through orcs like one might snap a branch. They turned the tide of the battle once dwarves charged from the mountain as well. With a common enemy, the honor of Thorin's house seemed to return to him.

Hours later, the battle was not over but had moved away from the city into the western mountains, and Bard could breath again. His streets were calming, his children all accounted for, and people more capable than himself were tending to the wounded, Sigrid included. He suddenly found himself at a loss. Even if the day was won, he had lost yet more of his few remaining people. Among the dead and wounded many elves lay as well. It did not seem natural to see the immortal beings lifeless on the ground, as if they should simply return to whatever heavenly realm they were clearly meant for when they passed. Here they were, though, bodies strewn on the pavement, no different than the men they'd fought beside, or the orcs they had battled.

His mind, cooling from the frenzy of battle, turned then to thoughts of the elven king. He had seen the man fight at the beginning of the battle, and he had been as flawless in that as everything else. He was flashing silver swords and flowing motions that seemed more like dancing than fighting in the brief glances he had gotten of him. Bard wandered the streets now and saw no sign of him until he reached the gates. Thranduil was not in sight, but at the entrance to his city laid a grand elk, slain with a myriad of arrows in its chest and flank. Just as the elves, this creature seemed to beautiful to lay, blood pooling on old stone.

Bard's heart sank. It was part of his childhood, a creature that he couldn't help but believe led him into the woods and back out long ago, and it laid dead in front of him. This should not sadden him to see as much as a man or elf, but it stung his heart all the same, and pricked at his eyes.

It was long moments later that he wondered what this meant for Thranduil, certainly he wouldn't leave his steed to be slain. Bard's eyes darted about, searching for one body he couldn't believe he'd find. The elk's loss had darkened his mood so profoundly, though, that he was startled to turn and find Thranduil standing not far behind him, that icy, distant look in his eyes again. He did not look at Bard so much as past him, and Bard took a moment to compose himself.

“I have called back my soldiers,” he informed, his voice heavy as stone.

Bard nodded, seeing that, for whatever loss he felt for his people, it could not quite compare to that of the elves. Men were taught to deal with death since they were children. Death was a part of any man or woman's life. There were fairy tales and children's rhymes to explain these things. For elves, though, this was not something that should happen. Their lives were not brief and fleeting, to be seized at any cost. Every decision they made they had to live with, not just for a few decades, for an eternity. In Thranduil's eternity now would be the loss of many of his best soldiers, likely some he cared a great deal for, none of whom should have ever know death.

How could he fault the elf for leaving, how could he have ever have thought they should fight? The burden he had placed on Thranduil now weighed upon his heart as well, some small fraction of what the elven king felt.

The warrior king was now turning away, his posture solid, but something in it defeated. Bard almost didn't know what to do after he'd found his hand on the kings shoulder, stopping him. Thranduil turned back around part ways to look at the human. Bard hesitated.

“If the day is won,” it seemed possible now, “I have promised you drinks.” His tone was more somber than he had intended, but he could not muster more mirth.

Thranduil was silent a long uncomfortable moment before he nodded, and Bard could breath again, “That you did, Bowman.” It was barely a response, it did not even hold a true promise, but it was something. Even if the elven lord vanished from his life again, it was a promise to linger between them, connecting them somehow.

Bard nodded and Thranduil left.

 

Bard heard tell of another army coming from the mountainous region to Dale's side. He was just rallying his men, though it pained him to ask his people to go into battle again so soon, when enormous shadows started to pass over them. Giant eagles, the likes of which he'd never seen, flew by and ended the conflict before it even passed the mountain's crest. Stunned, grateful, and confused, Bard nearly collapsed as the adrenaline holding him strong dissipated and he was left with an overwhelming fatigue from a full day of warfare. Instead of rest, though, he went to find his children again.

They were, thankfully, all together. As their previous head healer had been lost to the battle, Sigrid had taken up more grim tasks. This left Bain to shield Tilda's eyes when need be, as he refused to leave their sides, lest a stray orc was still in the area. Definitely 13, Bain was determined to be of use and have a sword in hand while doing so, if at all possible. Bain held back a fitful Tilda, hands over her eyes as Sigrid did what she could for a man who's bone was protruding from his arm. She looked so calm dealing with the aftermath. Bain stared in horror, but to his credit, kept the youngest from seeing.

“I need a hand, Bain” Sigrid said with a grimace, as the man whined, refusing to hold still.

Bain hesitated, for having to leave Tilda and for having to get closer to the gory scene.

Bard stepped forward then, “Give her a hand,” he requested softly of his son, though he knew it was asking a lot. He leaned over and, despite his aching, well, everything, scooped up his youngest to cradle against his chest, eyes turned to his shoulder rather then the scene that Bain reluctantly stepped towards. The hack and slash of a battle was one thing, but the results were somehow so much more gruesome.

He hated to leave the work to his children, but he new he would likely make things worse rather than better. Bain looked as bad off as he, though. While Bain held more courage in the fray of battle, Sigrid took lead here, her stoicism calmed her brother into usefulness. They worked together with surprising ease.

When the arm was set and wrapped as best it could be, Sigrid tuned to her father and all her calmness faded away, water gathering around her eyes. Bard was shocked at the change. He'd imagined somehow she'd grown up in this past weeks. “Da,” She whimpered, choking back tears. The emotion was contagious, as Bain's eyes were soon watering over as well, though he blinked it away dutifully, and Tilda squirmed in his arms.

Bard gathered up the rest of his children in an awkward but determined hug, squeezing them all, possibly a little too hard. None of them seemed to mind. His family had miraculously been spared again from the loss of so many others...


	8. Forging Relationships: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigrid is scouring the city for wounded and takes on a surprising patient...
> 
> (I'm sorry I'm so easily distracted, next chapter will get back on track! I promise!)

Part I: Sigrid

 

The battle had been won. The chaos was settling from the second major blow to the wary community that now resided in Dale. Sigrid, and all others who possibly could, tended to the wounded. She found a few elves among them, though most shooed her away, assuring her that they would wait for their own medic, who was never far behind. She always offered, all the same. This trend was finally broken when she found an elf trapped down a half toppled side ally, his leg twisted. He looked generally annoyed that the debris had dared to strike him. It'd been knocked loose by a large troll like creature, who lay slain at the opposite end of the narrow ally, or at least Sigrid assumed it was slain...

“It's dead, lass,” the elf assured, a slightly amused smile crept onto the tips of the redheaded's lips. “I saw to that, and it saw to knocking half this building onto me.” It was more like a handful of bricks and stones, but exaggerated or not, it was still a crippling blow.

Sigrid nodded, still troubled by the giant beast lifelessly staring through the rubble at her. She took a breath and started down to the elf, medical supplies she had left tucked under her arm, and determination in her eyes. She settled her skirts under her knees, moving debris out of the way with some effort. She glanced up at the elf, surprised she hadn't been shooed away already. The redhead just silently let the young woman go about her business, so she did.

She was good at setting legs by now, or at least, she didn't feel a horrible panic that she'd probably disfigured her patient for life. The prospect was more troubling when the patient in question was an elegant woodland creature, though. Where there crippled elves? The notion struck her as odd. She couldn't imagine the fairytale beings with a crutch or cane. Surely permanent injuries had to happen, especially when they lived so long! She was getting herself nervous and had found she had forgotten her bedside manner entirely, working in utter silence.

“You're the bargeman's girl, aren't you?” The elf's voice startled her, her eyes jumping up to find the redhead smiling faintly. “You have that serious sort of silence about you when you're working.”

Her mind wandering, imagining how elves would make a crutch look elegant, had made her seem much more serous about her work than she actually was. She wondered, for a moment, if she should correct the elf, but thought it better he thought her too serious than idly distracted as she set his leg. “Aye, Bard the Bowman is my da,” she nodded, trying to figure out just how this elf would know that about her father.

The elf's smile grew a little more real, “Well, now, if you're mother was half so pretty as you are,” he shook his head a bit, “It seems he wasn't exaggerating when he said she was as pretty as me.” he had a playful glint in his eye at the compliment, though his expression remained casual. It was likely meant to embarrass her, make her sputter something modest and blush.

“So I'm twice as pretty as you?” Sigrid inquired instead, raising her eyebrows as she looked up, pausing from her work for a moment. “Not that I'm arguing the point, mind ya. Just surprised to hear an elf admit it.” She went back to her work casually.

The elf blinked, taken off guard by the retort slipping so easily off the girl's tongue. He chuckled musically. “You are certainly your father's daughter,” he assured, thoroughly amused. He was, over all, in quite good humor for someone who'd broken his leg.

After getting his leg properly aligned, she started to wrap it. “I'm Sigrid,” she offered, “And who are you? How to you know my da?” she inquired, honestly curious.

“Carandol.” He had brought his face back to a more stoic one as she finished wrapping his leg to a splint. Not even an elf could keep a serene demeanor as a bone was adjusted.

It took a moment before the name sunk in. She was young when her father was reduced to picking up barrels from the woodland realm, but she remembered stories about the elf who taught her father bits of elvish and even helped him move cargo a few times. She couldn't help but smile. He was looking at her expectantly, and that's when she realized he was waiting to see if her da had mentioned him. She nearly laughed, but nodded, “Aye, my da told a tale or two about you,” she assured. The expression was subdued, but pleased.

Sigrid helped the elf up, which was much easier than some of the bulkier men, even with the elf's golden armor. She got him a crutch, but her suspicions of elves not often dealing with injury was furthered when he struggled to maneuver the thing and couldn't hobble along properly. Though it certainly didn't do the elf's pride much good, he allowed her to help him along as he went. Luckily the war camp was not far from where she'd found him, but it was through some odd back alley's, which had likely been what had left him undiscovered by his kin. The elves didn't shout for help like men would, they all seemed to just stoically wait, certain they would be found. That, or they would die demurely from blood loss or whatever else, Sigrid supposed. Either way, they would do it with grace and dignity.

The pair got a few stares as they passed through the market and into the elven camp. Both men and elves looked at them with some level of... disdain? She might have expected so much from the elves, but she was surprised to find men so uncomfortable after they'd fought along side the woodland warriors. She didn't understand why. Maybe she'd grown up on different sorts of stories about elves than most, given her father's odd position, or maybe she just wasn't very concerned who her patient was, so long as they needed help.

 

When she got the elf to the medical tent, directed through the war camp that was slowly being disassembled, she was instantly relieved of her charge. Harsh and worried elvish was muttered by a taller, dark haired elf that took over helping the redhead walk. They were glancing down to the splinted leg distraught, and clearly certain she'd set it improperly. Sigrid found herself blushing from the judgment, and suddenly unsure if it was entirely unfair.

Carandol's expression soured, “You'll want to speak kinder words of the Princess of Dale,” he warned.

The light blush turned to bright red on her cheeks. Princess of Dale? Her? “I'm only-” She attempted to correct the notion but was cut off.

“My lady, let me,” Carandol said. He stepped back from the elf who attended him, starting to get the hang of using the crutch. “This is Lady Sigrid, Daughter of Bard the Dragon Slayer, Heir of Girion, King of Dale.”

Sigrid stared at him at the introduction, no, the proclamation. She had heard people beginning to refer to her father as a king, but the reality of that position hadn't struck her until this moment. Lady Sigrid? A Princess?

It took a long moment, and she was glad that her expression when she was lost in thought was apparently regal enough that she was mistaken for taking on an heir of authority. The elven healer bowed his head respectfully.

She blinked and went to bowed her head back. She glanced at Carandol as she did and he was discreetly shaking his head. Oh, she was above this elf in status so she shouldn't bow back? She straightened her shoulders and wiped her hands on her dress, crusted with blood and dirt from her work.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she spoke with her most refined accent, which was, admittedly, not particularly refined. She inclined her head very slightly in a polite, but clearly socially superior manner.

The elf looked a little paler than he had before, possibly for being offended, possibly for having to bow to a Laketown whelp, or maybe just that he had been publicly shamed after a social misstep. It didn't matter. Sigrid played the part of princess, even in her bedraggled state. She stared him down until he replied with, “The pleasure is all mine, m'lady.”

She smiled, barely containing a laugh at the title.

An idea stuck her, “Are ya going to see to him?” she asked, loosing some of her regal air to excitement, “Can I watch?”

The elf hesitated, glancing to Carandol and then back to her, “I suppose so... Princess.”

“I am new to this,” she admitted, but wanted to reclaim the superiority in their relationship, “So, you'll show me how to go about it properly. My people need me.” The last was meant as a joke, but as she spoke it, she found she meant it. It sounded hokey, but truth rang in the words, and the elf certainly would have some good pointers! He'd probably had hundreds of years of experience under his belt.

Though confused, the elf allowed her to come into the tent to observe. Leading the way, Sigrid fell into step next to her patient.

“Your father's daughter, indeed,” he mused to himself. He looked down to her and she gave him a light shrug and a grin.

“If I'm to be a princess, I should start getting what I want right away, aye?” she inquired.

He let out a chuckle, nodding, “I imagine so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, so I might have missed my elf OC a little... I am fond of Carandol, don't judge me!  
> I promise he has a purpose, lol.


	9. Forging Relationships: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard is impatient waiting to be called on by the elven king and might just have to go and demand his celebratory drinks...

Part II: Bard

 

Bard was surprised to see the elves were still around the next day. He supposed, realistically, of course they were still there. They had injured and dead to attend to. While they had appeared out of nowhere, disappearing was a little bit harder, given the circumstances.

He thought, maybe, the Elven king would call on him, sending a messenger as he had previously, to bring him to his tent. No elf came to find him though. The elves were keeping themselves separated, save for the handful that his daughter miraculously convinced to see to some of the injured of his people. The teen had started walking with a queenly air when she was around the elves. He was actually relieved when he caught her romping around the house in undignified joy when a clean dress had been found in her size. It was a simple green thing and a fresh white apron, but wearing something not soaked through in blood had made her as frivolous as Tilda for a few joyous minutes.

Bard took to ruling his people, but found himself frowning more and more as the day went on and he heard no word from the king just outside his city's walls. He shouldn't have expected any word from him. It was only a promise of 'someday' he had gotten, and he was already upset for a day to pass before it was fulfilled? What sort of king would be make with that sort of attitude?

 

The next day was little different. The camp remained, but no communication came for him; no meetings to be had, no councils, no celebratory drinks.

When Bard came home for the evening Sigrid had just gotten in and was checking on the soup she'd left to Bain's attendance. Bain had, in turn, went off to see what he could see of the elven army before they left and had left the soup to Tilda's capable hands. Tilda was 8 and had boiled most of the soup away, but had luckily not burned the house down.

Bard would have scowled and lectured, but the grim expression on his face seemed to startle his youngest two enough to get a full confession and apology. Surprised by the candor and self discipline he could only nod and tell them to do better next time.

He should have been put at ease now that the dragon was slain, the orcs were defeated and his people were to be paid their fair share of the treasures. He wasn't. He hadn't realized he'd been pacing restlessly until he found he paced right out the door of his new home, the stone room seeming suddenly too confined for his irritated and restless feet.

Sigrid stepped out behind him, closing the door before he mindlessly paced back in, “You could go to him first y'know... if ya wanted to.”

Bard started at his daughter's suggestion, “What do you mean, Sigrid?” His brow furrowed deeper than it already was, which was an impressive feat.

“The elf king.” She looked up at her father then back away with a shrug, “I don't think he'd turn you away if you went to see him.”

“What brings this up?” he asked, confused how the girl could know what was troubling him while he was having a hard time even admitting it himself.

“It's not that hard to figure, Da,” She said softly, almost meekly, as if not wanting to bruise his ego too badly with the fact. “You were really excited whenever his soldiers called you back, and Ma always said she worried one day you would pick up and run off into the forest, to find your Moon Beam elf--” she looked up to her father, who was staring back at her, befuddled “That was King Thranduil, wasn't it?” She asked.

“When did your Ma tell you such things?” he mused. He barely ever spoke of the event, even to his wife. Why would Sigrid know about it?

Sigrid smiled a little, “You always looked at the forest so seriously,” she said, “But it was the same way ya looked at Ma when she'd call ya handsome, like ya couldn't figure why someone'd think you're good lookin',” she laughed a little. 

“Aye,” he agreed, “I never knew how I got so lucky that your Ma wanted a thing to do with me.” he reminisced fondly, but he was frowning, his brow lightly furrowed. He still didn't know why the woman had loved him, though there wasn't a day he didn't thank all that was good that she had.

“But ya always had this smile in your eyes.” Sigrid went on, noting the same expression on his face now, “Like ya didn't get it, but you were happy about it.”

Bard nodded slowly.

“Well, you gave that look when the elves came to get ya. You'd make a face that was all serious and shake your head, but your eyes were always happy to see 'em.” Sigrid explained.

Bard didn't know what to say. Was he so transparent, or was his daughter more observant than he gave her credit for? There was a long, silent moment.

“So, go ahead. I think he'd like to see you too. We boiled off too much soup to feed you anyway,” she said putting her hands on her hips to take on a defiant stance, “You'll have to find dinner elsewhere. So, off with you.” She batted at him, as if shooing a stray cat from her door step.

Bard laughed despite himself, and despite his better judgment, he decided to take the girl's advice. “A'right, a'right,” he said, stepping in through her shooing motions. He took her head and brought it forward to kiss the top of it. “Just don't leave those two alone again. They'll find a way to burn this stone house down soon enough,” he warned. His daughter laughed and promised before he left towards the elven camps as the light of the day started to fade.

 

The distance between his makeshift home and Thranduil's was decidedly the wrong length. If it had been shorter, he could have rushed there before he thought better of the idea. If it had been longer, he might have gotten himself to some solid consensus on what he was really planning to do when he arrived. As it was, he arrived there with just enough time to realize this was mad, and not enough to come to terms with that fact.

The guards eyed him. They knew him by this point, but now that the battle was over, it seemed they didn't think their king would have any need for him. He ignored them. If they were going to stop him, they would have, and they didn't. So he stepped through the tent's flaps with as much of a kingly air as he could muster, to make it clear to those guards he belonged in the company of a king.

“Hello?” The main room was empty and Bard frowned, not knowing how impolite it would be to wander the king's personal tent further.

He hesitantly tried the side door, where there was an area that was enclosed but still open above to the moon light. It seemed the least invasive place to start his search, and was the only other room he'd been in previously.

Luckily, Thranduil was there, his armor gone, his clothes no longer for ceremony or war. He stood in silvery moon light and simple white robes. For a moment Bard felt like the awe struck youth who had first seen the elf, blinded by the pale radiance of starlight. Things were different now, but he shrank away all the same, as if he were interrupting something not meant for mortal eyes.

“Gi nathlam hí,” the elf turned towards him, face shaded from the moonlight then, “Though I do not claim to know why you are here,” he stepped towards the tent and the warm light of fire washed over him; the cold, ethereal glow vanishing.

Bard unconsciously stepped back to make room for the Elven Lord, who kept him in sight just in the corner of his eyes as he passed. He did not give him his full attention, keeping his demeanor intentionally aloof.

“I came to see you,” he replied bluntly, although vaguely still.

A thick eyebrow raised, “And so you have seen me. Am I that much of a jewel to look upon that you'd come all this way just to see me?” the calm tone was meant as a jibe at the human.

“Yes,” Bard replied without hesitation.

The king turned to face him fully at that. The man was serious and aware of what he'd just said. Thranduil frowned, forcing the chill in his demeanor to remain. “You came just to look at me?” he asked again.

“No,” he conceded, “But the trip would be worth while to do so.”

Thranduil narrowed his eyes at this, pulling his lips into a thin line. The expression seemed forced. A different expression hid behind the careful look, shrouded in elven impassivity.

“You promised me drinks. I feared you would leave without keeping that promise.” Bard said, his tone casual enough to gain a lightening of Thranduil's expression.

“I never specified when,” he replied a bit more casually.

“I understand that 'someday' for an elf might be years, or decades, and you might barely feel the time pass.” Bard walked over to the table, Thranduil remaining near the exit, watching him, “And I don't want to risk you leaving and getting to choose an inconveniently long wait for me.” He poured two glasses. “I am, admittedly, not as patient as an elf to wait to celebrate.”

“I see little to celebrate at the moment.”

“You have reclaimed your jewels. The mountain is not in the hands of orcs. Not to mention you have gained an ally at Ereborn's gates.” Bard listed off. “We must celebrate what victories we can, I think. But if you will drink with me in reverence for those who gave us these victories, I would join you in that as well.”

Bard walked back over and offered the elf the cup. Thranduil took it, his eyes intent on Bard. “I would drink with you for what you have accomplished,” the king accepted.

“Then you will drink with reverence for our men, and with hope for the future of Dale,” he informed.

“As you wish, Bowman,” Thranduil agreed.

Bard shook his head, “More mirth will be required than that,” he informed. He received a skeptical look. “I slew a dragon, for Valor's sake. I never got to drink to that!” He took a gulp of his wine. A twinge of amusement came to Thranduil's eyes and he matched the gulp. “My children are safe and healthy,” he said, “Despite some of their best efforts” he added with another gulp. Thranduil accepted this as well, quite familiar with that sentiment.

Bard paused in thought then raised his glass, “You will be pleased with this one,” he assured, “They found me a crown, and it seems there's no backing out for me now. They have a crowning in the works for me and everything.” Thranduil chuckled at this and took a sip without prompting and Bard smiled and matched him.

“I've even started on my kingly duties and forged a strong relationship with the King of the Woodland realm,” he stated solidly.

“Have you now?” Thranduil asked, followed by another sip.

“Aye,” he gestured with his cup, “You just drank to it, didn't you?” he asked.

Thranduil paused, “That isn't exactly a pact of allegiance.”

Bard gave an unswayed smile, and received a bit of an eye roll. Thranduil started towards the throne area and Bard followed. Something about his posture changed as he walked, that bit of playfulness he'd pulled out retreated. He seemed to grow distant again as soon as Bard was out of his direct line of sight.

Bard had now battled orcs, rebuilt a broken people, and slain a dragon. He would not be frightened to take this last gamble.

“I'll drink to you.” he stated, drinking.

An eyebrow raised again, cup paused, “To my aiding your people? You already drank to relations with the king of the woods,” he reminded.

“No, not to kings, to you.” he clarified. He set his drink down at the small table next to the seats, “Seeing you again.”

Thranduil turned about and found himself inches from Bard. Blue eyes scanned the man up and down as well as they could in this close proximity. “So, what you're say is... You did come just to see me again.”

“No, not just to see you,” Bard took in a breath before he closed the gap between them. His calloused hands slid over his the elf's cheeks and slipped to the back of his head. His fingers ran through the perfectly unknotted hair and pulled him into a kiss.

It was Thranduil who was left dumbly standing there in the kiss this time. There were a few moments of contention in his mind, thoughts of pulling away entertained, but their logic was quickly brushed away in favor of less complicated thoughts. His arms slipped over the human's shoulders and he stepped forward into the bowman's solid form.

Bard was surprised by not just the acceptance of the kiss, but finding the elf's body pressed flush up against his own. He moved on instinct now, though, so there was no hesitation of his hand when his mind struggled to grasp the reality of the situation. It found its way, moving between them briefly, to the small of the elf's back. When he met with no protested, it moved lower, finding the elf's ass. Thranduil rolled his hips into Bard in response.

Bard broke their kiss, keen to catch Thranduil's expression, but the elf would have none of that. His arm that wasn't encumbered by the glass of wine, curled around the back of Bard's head and forced him back into the kiss.

Bard grinned. The firmness of the response was reassuring. He had been wary of this bold move, even if the king had kissed him days before. He also reveled in the simple physicality of it. It'd been a long time since he'd done something like this. True, he hadn't been utterly chaste since his wife had passed. There had been tipsy moments where he wasn't in the mood to refuse the handsy widow in the bar. There was a comfort in both having lost someone, it somehow seemed like less of a betrayal of the memory if both parties new their heart had belonged to another. Maybe that was part of what he felt here. No, but there was something else. Bard felt something other than sorrowful comradely with this elf.

Lips parted and teeth found his bottom lip, bringing him back from his musings. He pulled back a bit surprised, though a smile didn't leave his lips. He cocked an eyebrow.

“Your mind was drifting. It should be on me,” Thranduil's complaint sounded childish and Bard's grin widened.

“I was just thinking on why it was I enjoyed your company so much,” Bard assured.

Thranduil rolled his eyes, “I'm a king of elves.” he stated solidly, voice deep and regal, “There is no company more fair you could imagine,” he assured. His conceit was palpable and Bard barked out a laugh. He received narrowed eyes, realizing that even in his obvious pomposity, this man was not used to being called out.

“You are fair indeed, but no elf I have laid eyes on would I describe otherwise.” He felt the frown forming on the king's lips. He turned the elf and himself about, pulling them both back towards the throne. “There were faces pretty enough to catch my eye in Laketown as well.” He attempted to pull the king onto his lap as he sat back onto the large, elegant chair.

The king didn't budge. He might have seemed all soft skin and lithe figure, but Bard had seen him fight and was not surprised now when he stood as stone, unmovable. Bard fell back into the throne alone, looking up at a much too serious elf looming over him. He remained calm.

“There are many pretty faces, hîr vuin,” he said, getting comfortable in the seat, hoping to entice the other to join him after all. “You are not a pretty face,” Bard wasn't sure the twitch on one side of the other's face meant, but he pressed on, “You are something much more breath taking than that.” Thranduil softened, but still seemed wary.

“Am I?” he asked, incredulous, stepping forward to look down at the human.

Bard nodded, “You are a whisper calling me deeper into the woods,” Bard offered a hand up to he king, who cautiously took it as Bard went on, “The soft song of moonbeams falling through parted leaves.” He pulled him forward onto the thrown.

Thranduil straddled the king of Dale with raised eyebrows, “And your tongue is more of a romantic than the rest of you, I think.”

“I could show you a few other romantic things it can do,” Bard offered lasciviously.

Thranduil's eyes, which had been casually trailing over the man beneath him, jumped back to meet Bard's, amusement and surprise bright in them now. Bard simply smirked up at him. “Fine, Bargeman, I'll call your bluff.” he said, straightening up a bit to look down at him, “Show me,” he demanded.

The challenge laid at his feet, Bard did not hesitate to prove his words. His hand found the back of Thranduil's head again and pulled him back to his lips, parting them to slip his tongue into the other's mouth. He tugged him in closer with his other hand back on his back.

Thranduil was more than happy, it seemed, to accept the kiss, opening his mouth to Bard's exploration. Bard didn't linger too long, though he gladly could have. He moved his lips down Thranduil's neck before trailing his tongue back up. The elf exposed his neck to the attention, a quiet, pleased hum escaping him. Maybe a bit too pleased. Bard bit at the base of his neck, a hitched breath his reward.

“Your tongue, not your teeth,” Thranduil chided, but with no real venom.

“Mmm...” Bard didn't argue but hummed apologetically against the spot, planting a kiss there. His fingers were at the silver clasped collar at his neck, having trouble with the exact mechanism of it. Though he didn't pause his attentions to Thranduil's neck, his frustration grew, and he was soon growling into it along with the kisses.

Thranduil chuckled, slender fingers coming up and dusting his aside to unclasp the thing easily. Bard looked at the clasp disparagingly. Thranduil grinned down at his serious expression. “Don't be embarrassed. I wouldn't expect you to have the grace o-” He was cut off by a determined kiss and rough hands replacing soft silk. The immortal creature reveled in the coarse fingers roaming over his chest, pushing robes off his shoulders. The action was fluid, like he was drawing his bow, a controlled, strong motion disrobing him.

Bard claimed the newly exposed skin, licking, kissing, occasionally nipping to snap the king back up when he seemed to be melting. Thranduil had started rolling his hips in a tantalizingly slow motion as Bard worked to prove his tongue's prowess, and it was getting the desired effect; the bowman hardening under him. The king purred, content, and didn't pause as he pulled his wine glass up up to his lips to take a sip. Bard did pause, though, and looked up.

“Now who isn't paying attention,” he accused.

“I'm paying perfect attention,” the elf purred back, pushing his hips forward with a little more force. Bard's eyes fluttered and a self satisfied smirk pulled onto Thranduil's lips, still pressed to the glass. Bard sat himself up, taking the cup as he did and downed what was left before setting it aside pointedly. Thranduil chuckled, as his robe was tugged off the rest of the way and thrown aside haphazardly.

“You'll have me undressed before you're ever out of your boots,” Thranduil said. Bard opened his mouth to give some witty retort, but it died on his lips as the elf shifted and slid down him like running water. One fluid movement and he was in front of him, kneeling at his feet and pulling off his boots and tossing them aside. Bard found his face heating up. Hands found his knees and Thranduil looked up at him. “For my own edification,” he started smoothly, hands slowly sliding up Bard's thighs. He remained kneeling before him, watching his own hands. His eyes flicked up “have you been with a man before?”

Bard barely kept himself from sputtering at the sudden question. Had he been doing so poor a job? Was it that obvious? He composed himself quickly, “No, but I hadn't slain a dragon before either—I'm a quick study,” he assured. He hoped.

Thranduil's deft fingers were undoing his pants and Bard's heart sped up. “I'm sure you are, Dragonslayer,” he purred out the words as he pulled the man's erection free. Bard licked his lips unconsciously, staring down at the elf. “So pay attention.”

The elf's lips wrapped around the head of his cock, tongue swirling over it. His breath caught. Bard stared, entranced as Thranduil's lips slid down his erection, and pulled back up, his white blond hair falling down in the way. Before the elf could fix it, Bard was pushing the hair back. His hand slid through the hair before comfortable resting on the back of his head, fingers tangled in the silky strands. He didn't dare do anything but lay his hand there, encouragingly, affectionately, in some vain pretense of control, but Thranduil didn't need any of that. He'd taken on the task and he would do it perfectly. The tongue trailing over his cock before taking it back in his mouth to the hilt. A groan escaped from the back of Bard's throat, and his head fell back to the throne behind him. In an instant, though, he pulled it back forward, realizing he didn't want to miss a moment of the scene between his thighs, his cock disappearing into the elf's mouth over and again as his head bobbed up and down. The sight was surreal in the combination of the ethereal being and the vulgar act.

The king pulled away too soon, and for the briefest moments Bard's fingers tightened in his hair in protest. Instantly he thought better of it and let the slightly piteous moan speak his disagreement instead. The elf chuckled, sliding up between his legs, his clothed erection momentarily pressed against Bard's leaking one. He pushed his lips against Bards briefly before pushing himself up and away. 

Bard caught him sharply and pulled him back down for a fuller kiss. Thranduil obliged him before he pushed himself up more forcefully. “I will be only a moment,” he assured, clearly amused at the mortal's impatience.

Bard reluctantly released the elf, walking away only in his silken trousers, hanging haphazard and low on his hips. Bard let out a heavy breath as he watched him go, disappearing behind a tent flap. It was only a minute or so that he was gone, but Bard was nearly ready to go after him when he pushed back through the heavy white material, a jar of something in hand.

“Coat,” Thranduil stated, setting the jar to the side table, “Off.” Bard blinked at the king standing over him, hands on his hips, waiting. He started to pull of his coat, realizing he was quite overheated in it now anyway. “All of it, actually,” Thranduil reconsidered, waving his hand to gesture over the entirety of Bard. Bard might have had a witty comment, if the elf hadn't slipped his pants off his hips then, stepping out of them. Bard tossed his clothing aside quickly, the elf standing before him in all his fair glory, waiting.

It might not have been his most elegant of disrobing, in his haste, but it was efficient, and left a smile on Thranduil's lips. He pushed Bard back into his seat to straddle him again. He reached to the side and opened the jar, pulling it over. Bard blinked as Thranduil had him take some on his fingers then guided his hand around behind him. He stared dumbly, hand on the elf's ass. Thranduil stared back for a long moment before he thought to explain.

“My dear dragonslayer, you are a bit much for me to take, so you're going to help me prepare for you.” Everything clicked into place for Bard and he flushed at his ignorance. He hadn't ever thought to worry about such things, as he'd never gotten so involved with a man before. Of course he'd have to--

Thranduil laughed lightly, and leaned down to peck his forehead, “I thought you said you were a quick study.” he teased, guiding the man's hand to where it should be. “I can do it myself if you feel unequal to th-” He stopped himself, taking in a sharp breath as Bard pushed a finger into him. It was tentative, still unsure, and paused just barely inside of him. Thranduil leaned in to his ear, “Go ahead,” he whispered. Bard moved the finger, slow and steadily. After a bit Thranduil reached a hand back to coax a second finger in. Bard did so, a little less reluctant, particularly paired with a pleased hum next to his ear.

Thranduil gave a bit of a gasp as Bard took the initiative to add a third finger. Bard continued, his steady, if still a bit tentative, pace. As he worked him open, his finger hit a spot in Thranduil that sent a shiver through the elf, provoking a quiet moan. Bard paused then found the spot again. The response multiplied and fingers found his shoulders, gripping them tightly. Ready to go for the spot again, his hand was stilled.

“That's enough,” the elf breathed, shooing Bard's hands to the armrests. Bard was disappointed, but only for a moment before he realized what would be the replacement for his fingers. Thranduil shifted his hips up and Bard hastily rubbed what remained on his fingers over his erection. The pale blue eyes met his, they were all heat and steam now. The heated look was returned and it brought a self satisfied smirk to Thranduil's lips. He reveled in the desire he provoked in the human. He didn't let go of the eyes at he slowly lowered himself onto Bard's cock. Bard's moan caught in his throat, as the elf slowly lifted himself back up, and sunk down again.

Thranduil moved at an agonizingly slow pace. Bard let this go on for a time, likely needing the slow start to ensure the whole thing hadn't ended before it began. It wasn't too long, though, before he couldn't keep his hands in their place, clutching the wood of the throne. He took Thranduil's hips loosely at first, but grew bold almost as soon as he had his hands on the elf. His fingers tightened just as he shifted and snapped his hips forward into Thranduil.

He was rewarded for his boldness with the most delicious sound escaping Thranduil. The king of elves looked down to find the human smirking up at him. Bard took control then, his hands on Thranduil's hips, setting a faster pace. The king obliged, sweet deep gasps tumbling from his lips quietly. These pleased Bard, but he wasn't finding that spot again. The throne wasn't made for two people, and movement was a bit restricted on Bard's part. He stilled Thranduil, who sent his a severe look at him. He moved his hands from his hips briefly to pull him into a kiss before pulling him off his cock and standing him and himself up.

Thranduil took a moment to find strength in his legs again, “What are you--” his question was answered quicker than words could come. Bard had turned them about and leaned Thranduil over the throne hair pooling over his shoulder. He looked back to Bard. The bowman reached over and scooped a bit more of the slick substance for himself before he stepped up behind the elf, looking him over briefly. He slid a hand up over the smooth expanse of the immaculately muscled back and pulled the silky blond hair all to one side, giving him a clear view of the incredulous look he was getting. Thranduil had given the bowman control, and the eyes looking back at him made it clear that he better not be disappointed. Bard's hand slid back to mirror his other on Thranduil's hips. He carefully pushed himself in once again. Thranduil bit his lip as Bard pushed fully into him, fingers clutching at the arms of the throne.

Bard took his time, finding just the right angle until he found that place that made the elf tighten around him and groan. Bard smiled to himself and hit the place again, the moan grew louder. That was all the encouragement he needed. He set a fast and hard pace, hitting that spot as often as possible. Thranduil's head fell down between his shoulders as he cried out louder now at every thrust. Bard could barely take the tight heat around him, but, determined, he reached around finding Thranduil's erection. Fingers still a little slick, they slid over the elf's cock easily.

“Bowman,” he rasped, but corrected himself to “Bard.”

It was just his name, but as ever, spoken by the woodland king, it excited him more than it had any right to. He found he lost himself, thrusting forward, loosing any semblance of rhythm in a mad dash to the edge. He heard the king beneath him cry out, felt him tighten around him, and that was enough to push him over, coming buried deep in the other.

 

Bard took a long moment, recovering, finding the slender, but strong figure under him panting, catching his breath as well. The back beneath him moved beautiful at every deep breath and Bard found himself reaching to smooth over it again. Bard stepped back, slowly pulling out. The elf murmured something pleased in elvish under his breath before he straightened himself up as well. Bard stepped forward again to wrap arms around the elf burrowing his face into the elf's shoulder and kissed affectionately at his neck. Thranduil instinctual tilted his head lazily to the other side for the bowman to scruff his facial hair over the soft skin. He shivered lightly, quietly accepting the post coital affection.

When he was released, Thranduil turned about, body relaxed and comfortable in his nudity. Eyes half lidded, the elf had the demeanor of a satisfied cat, shifting and stretching his shoulders and back a bit. He patted Bards face affectionately before turning back about and wiping up the throne and himself with what Bard would belatedly realize was his shirt. He stepped around Bard to head through the tent flap he'd gone through earlier. Uncertain what else to do, Bard followed after a moment's hesitation. He grabbed his pants and coat hastily as he did, despite Thranduil not seeming concerned with clothes himself. It was still nearly winter and, despite the good construction, these tents were still tents and without the body heat of another body, he found himself chilled.

He stepped through the door just in time to spot the man disappearing through another. He hastened after him, and found himself faced with, steam?

 

A bath had been drawn for the woodland king, steaming and hot and waiting for him. Bard suddenly wondered how this had been prepared and he became suddenly very aware of how loud they had been. Thranduil could have asked for a bath before his coming and it just lined up well. Certainly that must be it... but there was no doubt the guards just outside the door must have heard, all the same.

Thranduil settled into the prepared tub. Bard'd never seen one so large, and certainly never had the opportunity to have such a hot luxurious bath before.

“I... should...” he wasn't sure what the protocol was for this situation. Was he supposed to have left? He hadn't been invited to follow...

“-Come and join me,” Thranduil finished smoothly. Bard shrugged lightly, happy to take any instruction in what he was supposed to do at this point. It was easily large enough for the both of them and it seemed entirely superfluous for the few days the elf king had planned to be here. The elf couldn't have imagined he'd be here more than a week, why in the world would he need a bath in that time? He put his clothes aside and carefully stepped up and into the tub.

As the hot water surrounding him, Bard suddenly couldn't blame Thranduil for the luxury. Steaming and hot, he sunk all the way under the water before pulling his head back up and sighing, leaning against the side of the tub. When he'd resurfaced Thranduil moved almost instantly to start working something through Bard's hair. The insistent fingers suggested this was something he'd wanted to do for a while. Bard would have protested, but the fingers working over his scalp simply felt too nice to resist. He let out a sigh and his eyes fell closed, a satisfied fatigue taking over his mind.

 

Bard started awake at a pinch of his cheek. “You're lucky I'm hear to keep you from drowning,” a deep voice teased him from behind. He dipped his head under water again to get the soapy substance from his hair. He was instantly offered more soaps. He laughed a bit as the elf insisted he get every inch of him cleaned up. He didn't hesitate to reach over and scrub at what he thought was being lazily washed either. Bard would shoo the hand away each time, but it didn't dissuade the elf from trying again a few moments later.

 

“How long have you been wanting to give me a bath?” Bard finally asked after, as he watched Thranduil ring out and brush his hair meticulously, though it barely needed the brushing at all.

“Since the moment I saw a grungy, shirtless vagabond bow to me from a barge.” He frowned at Bard, apparently disappointed he hadn't improved his hygiene since he was a teen. In his defense, his house had burned down recently, and he hadn't quite had the time to worry about personal grooming much.

Bard laughed, reaching behind himself to tie the top part of his hair back haphazardly. Thranduil kept the frown and stood up, grabbing a silky robe as he did to slip on. He offered no such kindness to Bard. He walked behind him and pulled out the tie. He ran his fingers through the hair to pull it back neatly, giving it a little braid at the back and tied it again deftly. Bard let him, seeing no harm and letting the elf fret over him. It was fairly amusing how serious he was about it all.

“Your hands,” Thranduil then demanded, walking around him and putting a hand out expectantly.

“I think I'll dress before you groom me any more, Lord Thranduil,” Bard said dryly. He reached for his pants but they were apparently unacceptable.

“I was going to have these sent over for you, but I suppose we can't have you putting back on filthy clothes now that I have finally gotten you bathed.” The king sighed and walked to a back entrance to the tent and spoke a few words of elvish to the attendant there. It was only a few moment before he returned with a stack of cloths, which Thranduil then carried over.

The fabrics weren't silks and brocades as Thranduil wore, but heavier materials. They were all still made of fine cloth, finer than anything Bard had worn before, but sturdy and heavy weaved. Bard blinked, running his hand over it. “I really don't think--” he tried to protest.

“A king cannot dress like a bargeman, Bard,” Thranduil said sternly. Bard couldn't really deny that, so he nodded. “And, seeing as how you couldn't even figure out how to use my clasp earlier,” Thranduil teased, “I will help you so you'll know how to dress yourself in the future.”

Bard rolled his eyes, taking the clothes and starting to dress. After some small resistance, he let the elf tug on his over coats in the right order, and match the clasps and buttons up right with a meticulous nature. His nimble fingers gave a quick tug on collar to get it to lay just right, buttoned a cuff and tugged out the under shirt. He did everything with such care. Bard found he didn't mind being fussed over when it was done with such affection, though he would sigh and complain all the same. His eyes never lost their smile though.

When all was done, right down to dirt being scrapped out from under his fingernails, he was led to a large reflective pane. Bard glanced at the kingly figure in it, but then had to do a double take as he realized the man there was, in fact, him. Thranduil stood taller, but, in his simple robe, somehow disappeared behind the king that stood there. Bard stared.

“Do you finally feel like the King of Dale?” Thranduil asked, a hand on his shoulder. Bard nodded numbly. He did. He wouldn't have thought that a set of clothes and a bath could make such a difference, but he'd be damned if he didn't feel a bit royal.

“Good,” he said quietly, stepping away. Thranduil's voice was still warm, but it was fading, and 

Bard was able to tare his eyes away from the self indulgent stare to catch the tip of ice that was coming into the elf's eyes. “What?” he asked.

Thranduil looked him over, a quiet sadness creeping over him, “You will make a good king.”

“That shouldn't make you look so defeated,” Bard said seriously.

“No,” he agreed.

“Then what?” Bard asked again, and he realized it was that creeping sadness he had seen in the elf's eyes days before, when he'd thought of his wife; the same sadness he'd held when his people lay dead before him. It was the sadness of an eternity that could not be shared with those who should have it with you. Bard though he understood and hesitated, “Oh...” Thranduil looked into Bard's eyes at that, and there was no doubt the reason for his melancholy.

“I wouldn't have you suffer for my sake...” Bard said, though it pained him to do so. His eyes dropped from Thranduil's, not wanting to see the pain he was causing. Everything came tumbling together in his mind. Maybe he shouldn't have come at all. His brow knit together in worry. The elf king hadn't called him here because he hadn't wanted this. He didn't want another loss, which Bard inevitably would be. Bard had been selfish to come.

Thranduil was smiling when he found the courage lifted his eyes back up, “You are so serious,” Thranduil teased lightly, brightening his eyes as he brought a hand to Bard's cheek, “I can have one more weight on my heart to have you for these years, I think,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

Bard was shocked by the pang it sent to his chest. He moved in instantly to kiss him, a thanks and a promise, wrapping his arms tightly around him. He would make sure that whatever joys he could bestow on the immortal being would outweigh his loss. He would make the trade worth while for the king. His kiss seemed to speak this fervent promise to the elf, just as much as the tight, possessive hug he held for a few long drawn out moments.

“Good, I have placed myself in strong arms, it seems,” he teased, taking a deep breath as his full lung capacity was returned when he was released.

Bard laughed a bit sheepishly, but Thranduil's eyes were warm again.

 

Thranduil had insisted he stay the night, taking him back further into the tent to his personal room. Bard was amazed by the extent of design in the tent.

Bard was able to disrobe himself, though Thranduil repeatedly inquired if he needed help. It was only after he realized the offers were Thranduil searching for an excuse to undress him more than an attempt at teasing. He let the elf pull him into the pile of far too many pillows and cushions. He somehow managed to find the elf in the sea of soft, silky bedding and collected him into his arms. He fell asleep to the feeling of steady rising and falling of another's breathing wrapped up in his arms. He found he hadn't slept so well in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! I got to the basic point of why I wrote this damn thing! Smut!


	10. Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after his night with the King of the elves, things need to be sorted out...
> 
> Translations of some of the elvish at the bottom

Bard had never been so snugly tucked into someone's arms. Bard was the protector: of his family, of his home, of his people. For that matter, he'd also always been the taller of any relationship he'd been in, that is, until now. He now found himself staring at smooth pale skin as he slowly opened his eyes. He was neatly tucked under the chin of the King of the Woods, arms wrapped around him. It wasn't a bad feeling, but certainly not a position he was used to being in. He took in a deep breath, and it was likely the cleanest he'd ever smelled. Maybe this bathing every over day thing wasn't completely insane... no it was, but not entirely without its advantages.

His stirring woke the elven king, at least part ways. He shifted, turning his head down to kiss of top of Bard's; unusual position indeed. He wasn't sure how he felt to be shorter than his lover.

Lover. It was quite a weighted term to hear in his own head. It seemed odd to think he could be such a thing to an elf, but the promises of the night before seemed too serious for him to be anything else.

“Aur vaer,” Thranduil murmured into his hair, seeming quite pleased that it was fresh and relieved of grease and dirt.

Bard attempted to pull away but found his light attempts were rejected. He would have to fight to escape the arms, and he did not have the heart for that. The elf muttered something in elvish into his hair.

“What?”

“Contemplating if I'll have to bath you every time I steal you away.” he informed, his voice low and rumbling, as if not wanting to fully wake up either.

Bard probably should have been insulted, but he didn't see the downside to one of those hot, steaming baths periodically. “I imagine you might,” he replied, planting a soft kiss on the skin in front of him and looking up in a quiet request. Thranduil sighed, but accepted this much softer plea for freedom. He would have fought a forceful retreat, but this was charmingly reserved from a human.

Bard straightened himself up, meeting Thranduil's half lidded eyes, despite their sleepy nature they still seemed intense and aware. He was a decent enough hunter, but this creature was too majestic to truly imagine he'd caught. It was likely the other way around...

“It'll get late,” Bard said, sitting up. Thranduil reluctantly shifted, stretching with unnatural grace. Bard paused to watch him, and Thranduil didn't seem a bit shy for being a spectacle. He was too self satisfied and damn majestic to be concerned with eyes on him.

Thranduil remained sprawled across the bed as Bard busied himself dressing. The gesture was not of indolence, but of an understanding of time which came with an over abundance of experience with it. The elf had nothing to fear from it, so it never held purchase on him as it would a human. He lounged, knowing how long he could relax, watching the king to be tug on his layers. Only when it was necessary did he stand himself up and pull on his robes. He would seem to move slowly, but he didn't waste time or movement. Each step led him to his end goal of being fully clothed.

Thranduil finished as Bard did, and the bowman frowned lightly, unaware of when the other had caught up to him in dressing. He didn't seem to have a simpler outfit, no less layers. Thranduil just smiled back and started to the exit.

Bard hesitated. “It might see odd.”

“Hmm?”

“My leaving your tents with you in the mornings...”

Bard hadn't worried about the thoughts of others much the night before. He hadn't worried about them for most of his life, even. He wasn't in line to be a king before though. He hadn't been sleeping with an elven king either. These seemed two things that might draw unwanted attention. He frowned, contemplating his new role in society seriously.

Thranduil seemed unworried. “You were in conference with the elven king until the early hours of the morning; that is what they will think.” he replied, “Making arrangements for the trade and relations between your renewed Dale, and the Woodland Realm.”

Bard nodded, letting worry of what others might suspect pass. He'd never worried too hard on it before and the self conscious feeling didn't suit him. “And what are the arrangements we've made?” he asked, an honest question for the elf, who paused at the doorway out.

“Arrangements of allied kingdoms who's monarchs are likely to often stay in council until late hours of the night,” he stated, pushing past the cloth door into the main room of the tent.

Bard considered for a moment and shrugged one shoulder with a light acceptance, “Aye, sounds good.” He glanced at the guards at either side of the door, standing at attention. He nodded his head to them. They didn't move, pointedly not looking at him. Bard smiled a bit to himself. Well, he would have to be satisfied with winning over the heart of one elf. Anything more was asking a bit much of his charms.

Thranduil looked back to him, “And we will certainly have much to discuss. We'll likely have to visit quite often.”

“Of course,” Bard agreed casually, falling into step next to him. “The whole royal family might even have to come,” he said, watching Thranduil for a reaction.

The king walked them out of the tent and into the war camp, still slowly disassembling, “I have heard your eldest is already requisitioning my medics to see to some of your people.”

“Sigrid seems to be taking to her royal duties better than I am,” Bard chuckled.

“We'll have something suitable made for her,” Thranduil said, more musing to himself than actually speaking to Bard.

“Hmm?”

“All of them, your children,” he clarified, “We can't have just you looking the part and your children looking like paupers.”

Bard stopped, surprising Thranduil who stopped and turned about to face him.

“I appreciate your gifts, Lord Thranduil,” the term was not of endearment, it came cold off his lips, “But you will not call my children 'paupers', regardless of their dress, or mine.”

Thranduil stared, apparently unaware his words could have possibly been a slight. “I meant no offense...” he said with caution, tilting his head.

“It was given, despite your intentions.” Bard was not budging.

“Then... my apologize are offered.” An apology rested uneasy on Thranduil's tongue. He had to force it out, barely pulling it into a statement instead of an inquiry by the tip of his tone.

Bard paused, then nodded, “Then you are forgiven,” he patted the elf's shoulder as he moved past, continuing on their walk.

Thranduil turned and fell into pace, “Fancy clothes and suddenly you're a king indeed.”

“You think I'd have acted differently if I were wearing anything else?”

Thranduil was silent a moment before a smile tugged at the corner of his lip, “No. Bard, I suppose not,” he conceded.

 

When the two reached the entrance to Dale, Thranduil stopped. “I'll leave you to your duties. I'm sure dwarves will want to have a few words with you, or that you should have with them before your opportunity passes.”

Bard nodded, but hesitated. “And my opportunity to see you, when does that pass?” he asked.

Thranduil paused, “I would see you coronated, as I have vested interests and assuring the throne of Dale goes to Man and not Dwarf, or any other fowl creature.”

“Then I will have you a few more days at least,” he said, poorly hiding his relief.

Thranduil looked pleased.

“Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham*.” Bard knew he butchered the sentence, and he had to wonder if it was even intelligible. The sentiment felt right, if he'd had the affectionate farewell correctly translated to him all those years ago, something to the effect of 'my heart will ache until I see you', he thought. He had once asked Carandol how to say romantic sorts of things on a day he'd come to make the trade without his dour partner. Admittedly he'd been on the verge of asking his wife to marry him, so romance was uncommonly prevalent in his thoughts at the time. He was pleased he had found some opportunity to use it.

Thranduil shook his head lightly, “Your tongue is a romantic, but a clumsy one, bowman,” he informed.

“It's been out of practice many years, I'm afraid.” he replied, “And never has it attempted to woo an elf before now.”

“I think we can devise some training for you,” Thranduil replied.

“Then give me something to practice for now,” Bard suggested. “Something easier to start, maybe. I haven't had to use it in a while.”

“Pedin i phith in aníron, a nin ú-cheniathog*,” Thranduil replied dismissively.

“Ego, mibo orch*,” Bard snipped back, “I was taught elvish by an elf, remember, I know when you're being flippant with me.” Even if he didn't know exactly what was said, the tone was clear enough.

Thranduil rolled his eyes lightly, but was thoughtful for a moment this time, “How about, 'gi melin' try that one.”

Bard eyed him warily. It didn't sound like an insult, but it wasn't something he'd heard from Carandol before. Thranduil was waiting expectantly.

“Gi melin,” Bard repeated carefully.

Thranduil smiled a surprisingly soft smile. He nodded to Bard, seeming pleased with himself. He then dismissed himself with a casual farewell, leaving the human a bit suspicious, but he nodded back, letting him go. He did have a lot to accomplish today. He really didn't have time to dally.

 

He didn't get home until late that evening. The dwarves had to discuss how to go about reclaiming Ereborn and its riches after the passing of Thorin. This left Bard as the only human in a room full of bickering dwarves. This was not to say that it wasn't clear from the get go who would take over; Dain was the clear decision from the beginning. That didn't stop the dwarves from arguing and posturing and shouting for hours on end. Bard barreled through it, waiting for those few moments when the human interest needed to be fought for. He found he didn't have a problem joining into the shouting ruckus when need be. The quick adaption to their political system seemed to win him enough respect to have his voice heard when he requested it. He was glad, because his voice wouldn't have held out if they didn't lend him an ear when he'd asked.

There would certainly be more of these sorts of meetings in the future, as the relationship between dwarves and humans was reformed. It would, luckily, be with fewer participants, so the volume necessary to cut into the conversation would be lower, hopefuly.

 

Bard rode home when it was already dark. With him he brought back gifts of peace from the dwarven council, a sign of good will and a promise of settling their debts properly to the humans. Most for today were gifts for him and his son: fine crafted tools of war. There were also a few pieces of jewelry for his daughters. All of these gifts were so extravagant, he wasn't sure how his children would react. The pack that he came home with him was easily worth more than their house and all their possessions combined. It was a strange feeling to so casually receive such gifts.

He walked the torchlit streets of Dale. The renewed human kingdom didn't sleep early, particularly not with so much to do to settle in still. They people hardly had had a chance to find shelters to claim as their own before the orc army had attacked. Now things needed to be more realistically sorted out and Bard wondered when he'd have time to do that...

He reached his home and pushed the door open with his shoulder. “If we have soup left heat it up for me, could you Sigrid?” Bard said. He set the pack down carefully, not sure where the fine jewelry had been packed amongst the weapons and fearing he'd destroy them.

“Quella tuulo' elea*,” a vaguely familiar voice greeted.

Bard started and looked up, “Carandol?” he asked, then grinned, “What are you doing in my hou—what'd you do to your leg?” Bard asked. He actually hadn't seen many wounded elves. They must have been very efficient with finding them and carrying them off for treatment, evening as the battle had been ongoing.

Before the readheaded elf could respond, his daughters were coming down the stairs, followed by elven ladies. “Da!” Tilda shouted, she hopped down the stairs in a dress befitting a princess, cornflower blue and trimmed in white. She spun about in it to show off the new, fine clothing, and most notable, the many layered petticoat which made it perfect for twirling. Bard picked the girl up, “Look at you! A little Lady.” Her hair had enough been braided up with ribbons and a decorative flower pin at the back to hold it all in a neat bun.

Sigrid followed a few steps behind, keeping a little more dignity, likely to leave a good impression with the elves in their presence. She was working on starting her reputation among them already, and seemed determined to impress them. Her dress was a deep cobalt with silver trimmings, a more elegant sleek cut than her little sister's with its ribbons and gather. Hers hung more like an elven gown. She looked like a proper lady.

Bard beamed at his eldest. “You look beautiful, Sig.” She bowed her head demurely. Bard chuckled, and it only took her a moment to be laughing as well. Her poise cracked and she hustled over to her da to show off like her sister.

“Carandol came with gifts from the king,” she explained. The redheaded elf nodded from his place seated by the fire. He had insisted on being the envoy for the elves, even in his current condition. His influence with the princess to be and his previous dealings with the once bargeman had helped win him the position.

“Le suilon,” Bard said pleasantly, smiling at his old coworker.

“It is good to see you, friend.” Carandol stood himself up. He had two beautifully carved elven crutches now, and he'd grown used to using them, moving much more fluidly.

“You too.” Bard said, clapping a hand on his back, though softly so as not to throw the injured elf off balance. “I see you're back to delivering goods for the elves to the humans.”

“Ahh, you belittle my position. This is a promotion. I am delivering goods from my king to the king of Dale. I'm the ambassador now. Very prestigious,” He assured.

“Ah,” Bard nodded.

“Seems you've moved up a bit in the ranks since we last met too,” he noted.

“There's discussion of a crowning.” Bard shrugged as if it weren't too impressive. Carandol chuckled.

Bain stepped down the stairs then, a little later than his sisters as he didn't have help dressing like the ladies had. He was adjusting his overcoat, not seeming sure it was sitting quite right. He looked down and caught the eye of his father. He was dressed in a matching princely version of his father's garb.

Bard set his littlest down, “I have the perfect addition for that, Bain,” he informed. He turned around and opened up the gifts from the dwarves. He pulled out the sword for Bain, a sheath included, ready to be attached to his belt. He offered it to the young man. “Of course, we'll have to get you proper training with that, so for now it's just for decoration,” he added. It was a promise to his son, though.

Bain stared, looking from the sheathed sword to his father, wide eyed. His own sword. Nice clothes were all well and good, but a sword just for him? He wasn't sure what to do, and his apprehension was clear, paired with his excitement as he carefully took the weapon.

“Step back, now and go ahead you can pull it out.” he informed, “Carefully,” he added on for good measure, seeing how excited his son was, grabbing the hilt.

He pulled it out as Bard went on to explain it was a gift from the dwarves, chosen for him from the treasure troves of Ereborn. It was a sign of trust and peace between their kingdo- and his son wasn't listening. He was enamored with the blade, and Bard sighed and smiled as he swayed it uncertainly about. He could instill the honor and responsibility that came with weapon later, he supposed.

He turned then to offer his daughters the other gifts that had been given to them. The jewelry was perfect for their outfits. If he didn't know it was entirely ridiculous, he'd think that the dwarves and elves had planned the gifts together. He started by helping his younger daughter with her necklace, as she was more impatient. When he stood to help his elder he found Carandol had beat him to it. She beamed at him, before beaming down at her sapphire pendent. Dwarves certainly knew what to do with gem stones, at the very least.

Carandol didn't stay much longer, though Bard got a promise of a drink with the elf to catch up. He bid formal farewells to the family, with proper bows and even got a blush from Sigrid when he kissed her hand. Bard chuckled, shooing him out of his house before he found an excuse to embarrass anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations (from various places around the internet):  
> -"Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham" : My heart will weep to the time when we will meet again.  
> -"Pedin i phith in aníron, a nin ú-cheniathog," : I can say what I wish, and you won't understand me.  
> -"Ego, mibo orch" : Go kiss an orc.  
> -"Quella tuulo' elea" : Good Evening


	11. A Flower Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard is caught between the bickering of Thranduil and Dain, but more importantly, where has Tilda gone??
> 
> Certainly a little fluff is needed, right? You're damn right it is.

The new people of Dale were excited to have their king be crowned, particularly when they saw the man walking around looking the part in his newly gifted garb. The general impatience of the people culminated in a hurriedly planned ceremony only a few days later. Bard didn't argue, though he reminded some of the more lofty planners that they were not particularly well supplied for any extravagant feasting. This did not detour them in the slightest.

 

The days leading up to the event saw Thranduil and Bard meet a few times, but never with time enough for a private tryst before other duties called one or the other away. Bard was, admittedly, disappointed, particularly with the sly glances he received when backs were turned or attentions diverted. The elf kings eyes could be entirely unreadable at times, but in those brief seconds they were fire and passion and want. They startled Bard, and while Thranduil had the ability to dispel the look in an instant, turning right back to political business, it left Bard distracted and flustered.

He'd genuinely found himself blushing after the first such incident. Every bit of what they were discussing with the handful of dwarves, trying to hash out treaties with the elves, was lost on him. He barely believed the stare that had just been leveled at him was real, particularly when it vanished just as quickly. It left him feeling so exposed, and he found his face heating up. His health was even inquired after by one of the elder dwarves, Dwalin? Or was it Balin? It was damn rude of them to rhyme their names like that. He muttered out an excuse, which he could not be asked to be accountable for, but it was luckily acceptable.

Thranduil's pleasure at his ability to so easily undo Bard was clear in a flagrant smirk. Bard had never wanted to punch his majestic face before, but it seemed like a damn good option at that moment. He didn't have to though. He had never been so happy for the racist assumptions of dwarves before, but Thranduil's smirking got him a rude shouting at, as they assumed he was scheming against them instead of Bard's dignity.

 

While Bard saw Thranduil only for official affairs, Carandol appeared at his house with surprising frequency, particularly considering the amount of stairs the elf had to ascend and descend with his injured leg. He brought small messages from the elven king, as well little gifts, but more than either of these, he seemed to simply like to visit. Bard had always felt a strange level of kinship with the elf, despite his being, well, an elf. Now, it seemed, as Carandol was free to pursue relations with him, he felt the same way. It was a pleasant surprise.

The redheaded elf even had dinner with Bard and his family, which threw Sigrid into a tizzy, trying to prepare something befitting an elves palette. Luckily, in the end she settled on a regular dinner and vaguely rude insinuations under the guise of apologizing for not having enough wine and salad on hand. Bard was shocked at his daughter's brazenness, but it seemed Carandol was a thoroughly bad influence, as chuckles trickled out of him at the subtle abuse throughout dinner. He, of course, had jibes of his own, but he never once insulted the food he was eating, or the hospitality of Bard's home. He simply slandered the entirety of the human race, which was, to Bard at least, more acceptable.

 

When the feasting day finally arrived, Bard was surprised to find that both Dwarves and Elves had lent their assistance to the affair. Of course, neither had worked with the other, so the gifts, decorations, and food offerings all ended up as a patchwork stitched together as best the townspeople of Dale could manage.

As Bard walked through, looking over the preparations, he found the juxtaposed festival somehow fitting. It was patchwork, yes, but so were his people. They were an odd gathering, a gateway between different worlds, and his crowning should certainly show both sides of what would make his kingdom.

The unfortunate reality of the position he had taken up became much clearer for the king to be as he found himself seated, with no buffer, between the elf king and the new Dwarven ruler of Ereborn. The diplomatic stress of sitting between an elf and a dwarf who he needed to play nice together was not one any human should have to suffer, let alone a man not even crowned yet. He couldn't pay any attention to one without a snide comment or straight out insult from the other. They hadn't even gotten their food and Bard found his head in his hand, rubbing his temple.

He could deal with the condescension of elves or the pugnacity of dwarves on their own, but both at the same time? He had a hard enough time when they were pretending to be civilized politicians, now they were just drunks at a party, having at each other with petty insult, barely bothering to put on the guise of conversation. It was exhausting.

To Bard's left sat Dain, the next in line for Ereborn through some old family line. Further to the left was his wife, who Bard had to do a double take to recognize the stout figure was indeed a woman, her beard elegantly braided into her swept up hair and heavily hung with jewelry. Bard had found himself surprised there really were dwarven women, though he supposed he didn't know where else they would come from other than springing out from under rocks (admittedly that had seemed just as likely as dwarven women to him up until this point).

To Bard's right was Thranduil, cutting in before his children. It might have seemed more fitting to have Bard next to his children, but it could not be. If his children came before Thranduil, it left the king far to far down the line, insulting his importance. If they had sat Thranduil in the middle, as he had no family present, it might set the three kings together at the head of the room, but it would leave Thranduil and Dain without any buffer. Bard did not care for the idea of a fist fight at his crowning, though the idea of just tossing the two of them out to fight through their petty differences was becoming more and more appealing as the minutes dragged on.

How could someone so ancient and elegant be so damned childish? The elf pretended that talking wide circles around an insult was any better then coming out and saying 'your mother was a whore'. While that might have been amusing to watch from a more distant vantage point, being literally between the two was grating on Bard's sanity, or at least his good will as a host. Could he kick the both of them out when between them they'd supplied the entire feast? No, better to save that card in case this happened again, wait until it actually was his feast to throw them out of...

 

Bard had never been happier to be called up in front of a crowd to be stared at in his life. He nearly knocked his chair over getting up in such a rush. Thranduil seemed startled, frowning at him, as if he couldn't imagine what could be bothering the human.

As it turned out, the whole family was called up. They had all worn their new dress clothes to the event, the first time Sigrid had dared to wear hers out at all. With the city still in disarray and work to be done, he didn't blame her. As they all strolled to the head of the assembly, behind him, all three of his children prince and princesses, he realized how well they wore it. He felt like he was in a costume yet, but Bain strolled with such confidence, it was like he'd been waiting for the outfit his entire life. Sigrid was a queen already in her airs. Tilda even looked like she was made to be dolled up and scolded for taring her dresses time and again. He smiled down the line of them, Bain next to him, then Sigrid, then Tilda. He felt as proud a father as he'd ever been.

There was a short, and surprisingly well rehearsed speech about honor and his lineage given once they'd gotten him up there. It was all rather well put together. Dain and Thranduil even seemed to know just when to come in with their little few sentences accepting his kingdom and rule. It felt like everyone knew just what to do. With no practice everyone in attendance, from elves to dwarves to his ragtag bunch of humans, knew their parts, except for him. Bard just stood at the front of the assembly in awe of the well ritual and thanked the heavens that apparently all he had to do was dip his head down a little to accept the crown when it was walked over.

After he received a king's crown, then the crowning moved down the line. Bain grinned as he was given his own, smaller headpiece, for the crown prince. Sigrid was given a lovely circlet that matched the necklace the Dwarves had given her earlier.

After the crowns had been given out his townspeople looked to him expectantly. It took him a long moment before he realized it was his turn for words.

“Ah-” he cleared his throat and thought for a moment more. “I accept this crown with trepidations, but also hope. Our people are few, and our home is new to us, but with the good graces of generous neighbors, as we see hear with our feast,” he gestured around and a round of appreciative whoops came from the crowd, “We have hope again to build a grand people, a prosperous people. In time, if you bare with us, we will grow again and pay your kindnesses back. It will not be easy, and Gods know, I did not ask for this duty. But you fine people believe in me, so I hope that means you all believe in yourselves enough to make up for your bargeman of a king,” his people thankfully laughed, “I hope I am equal to the tasks that lay before our people, and that I may be worthy of the trust you place in me.”

“Ahh, Bard, don't think on it too hard, we just wanted to sound tough. Nothing tougher than having a dragon slayer as your king. Who'll mess with your kingdom when ya got a dragon slayer as your king?” A male voice barked from the back.

Bard laughed, “Well good! Then you won't expect too much of me and I can rest easy.”

“Ahh, well, just keep sucking up to the elves and the dwarves. They throw darn good parties,” someone else chimed in.

Bard tipped his head graciously to Dain and Thranduil at the other end of the hall.

“I think my first act as king is going to be closing this up and say it's about time for some food, music, and wine,” he suggested, to a roar of agreement. He let himself off the faux stage and led his family back to the dining table. He noticed Tilda seeming... a little slower than usual. Was the girl tired so early? It was barely sundown, and she should still be at peak energy, particularly since she was being let stay up for a party.

He was drawn away from his concern by a deep voice greeting him. The gentle touch of his hand was subtle, but it still made his heart skip. He was about to make an inappropriate suggestion and ask if anyone would notice were they to sneak away for a moment. He instantly remembered why he'd been so keen to leave earlier, though, when the dwarven king stomped up, upset he was second to give his congratulations. Bard sighed and the hand slipped away from where it brushed against his. Argument ensued instantly.

 

The food was delicious, the wine necessary, and Bard used the first excuse he could find to bolt from the table, leaving the two other kings to bicker through an empty seat for now. He made his rounds, letting people congratulate him, even though it had been their own doing that he was king at all. He let them, laughing and nodding and thanking them for fighting with him and for staying strong.

When he looked back to the head table he might have noticed that a few of its occupants were missing, Thranduil was easy to note missing, but Dain was still there so they weren't off restarting a war. That was good. Thranduil was, at most, offended by his crassness enough to simply leave. The whole event made Bard weary. Today, Thranduil had simply made him weary. His ethereal charm didn't protect him from being insufferable always, it seemed.

Bard started, noticing a much more important empty chair then, Tilda's. Sigrid and Bain were there, but his youngest was missing. He rushed through the crowd of people as fast as he could without literally shoving, apologizing as he did, eyes darting about to try to locate the girl. When he arrived he instantly asked his older two children where their sister was.

“Tilda? Tilda's--” Sigrid's eye fluttered and then widened, “I don't know,” she looked alarmed, and also notably rosy cheeked. Had they been giving her the elvish wine?

“Bain did you--” Bard turned to his son who hiccuped and tried to look serious when his father's hard eyes leveled on him. His son was unquestionably drunk. “Bain...” he said furrowing his brow. He would deal with these two later, though. Tilda was still at large.

“You two stop drinking, and watch for Tilda,” he said, turning to leave.

Sigrid hopped to her feet a little too fast and stumbled. She half giggled, but her alarm for her little sister over ruled her tipsiness and she tried to join the search.

“Sit.” Bard ordered, “and keep an eye out from here.” he added. She obeyed instantly plopping herself back down.

 

Bard searched throughout the party with rising concern, peaking under tables and muttering apologies as he ignored his guests. He was just about to stop the entire party to have the guests help him search when he peaked around a corner, just out of the ruckus of the main party, into a quiet side alley. He stopped short at the scene.

“Tears are not suited for such a lovely young lady,” a deep, consoling voice informed, silk sleeves were wiping away the remainder of tears from his littlest's eyes. “A princess is always strong,” he informed. Thranduil knelt down in front of the teary eyed girl.

“I'm not a princess,” Tilda whimpered, letting the elf, a stranger by any practical sense, pat away her tears without any discomfort.

“Why is that, little one?” Thranduil asked in a tone that suggested he already knew the answer, but was leading her to say it first.

“Everyone else got a crown. Sigrid gets to be a princess, and Bain's a prince, and Da's king. Not me.” She sniffled, taking it upon herself to wipe her nose on the elf's sleeve. Bard was amazed the elf kept his composure at the gross misuse of his robes.

“Who says you get no crown?” He asked, surprising her from her tears. “Henig, you are a growing princess though,” he informed softly, “So you need a growing crown to suit you.”

Tilda stared unsure of what to make of the comment before slowly nodding.

Thranduil smiled the softest of smiles and reach behind him to produce a woven flower crown, it was of winter blooms, one of the few flowers which thrived high in the mountains, and bloomed in the winters. The pale blue and white flowers were woven in an intricate and knotting pattern to form the tiny crown.

Tilda stared wide eyed and gleeful, “That's my crown?” she asked. Thranduil nodded. She cooed excitedly.

“Are you ready to be crowned?” Thranduil inquired. The girl nodded her head vigorously. When she'd stilled, Thranduil lifted the crown into her head, fitting her perfectly. Had the elf... had the crown made just for Tilda? She was beaming, despite her cheeks still being wet with tears. “Ahh,” Thranduil said, tipping her head up and wiping the last of the tears away with a gentle thumb, “I might have mistaken you for an elven maiden, if I hadn't just crowned you myself.”

Tilda stepped back, grinning bashfully and swaying her dress back and forth. “I'm not an elf,” she insisted, giggling.

“You are right,” he said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “You are much fairer than any elf I have seen, Princess.”

She pulled her hands in front of her face, blushing at the compliment.

Bard had remained just at the entrance of the side alley, watching the exchange, his heart aching the scene before him.

Thranduil stood, dusting off his knees, “Are you ready to go back to the party?” he inquired. She nodded excitedly, her usual self again. She hustled back towards the festivities ahead of him.

Bard stepped out then, catching Tilda and scooping her up just as she was rushing by. “Little one! You look different than when I saw you last!” Bard exclaimed, Tilda grew excited, “You look like a Lady! Did you change your dress?” Tilda shook her head, “No... new shoes?” he asked, lifting her up further to look at her shoes.

“Noooo,” she cooed, just about bursting.

“Goodness, what could it be, suddenly you're just such a lovely looking lady—ah!” Bard held her out a bit more. “Have you become a princess while you were away?” he asked.

She nodded, hands shooting to her flower crown, “I was crowned too! I'm a princess now too!”

Bard grinned pulled her back in to kiss her cheek, “Yes, you are.”

“King Thandil crowned me, and says I'm prettier than an elf,” she excitedly informed.

“High praise, coming from an elf,” he said with an amused grin past the girl to the elf who had stepped up just behind them, a tranquil expression on his face. He gave a light shrug at his glance.

“I praise beauty wherever it is found,” he assured.

Bard set his little girl down, “Now little princesses don't run off without telling anyone where they are going, you know,” He reminded her.

She nodded and apologized and promised to go right back to Sigrid (and her food). Bard nodded and watched her, leaning around the corner to see her running and showing off her crown as she made a bee-line for the head table.

When he was satisfied with her arrival he turned back around the corner, putting a hand out to stop Thranduil as he tried to head back to the festival as well. The image of Thranduil so sweetly taking care of one of his children had flipped his heart in his chest, and it was stuck, tight but happy. It was such a lovely thing he barely knew what to do with it.

His hand pushed back lightly, finding Thranduil's chest and pushing him gently around the corner further.

Thranduil conceded the steps, moving them away from the party, “Your youngest is very sweet,” He started, but barely had time to finish before Bard had surged forward, his palm, previously flat against the chest, turned into a fist, pulling him by his robes. Bard crashed their mouths together with more fervor than just a few days of not having an opportunity to reaffirm their affections should merit.

Thranduil was startled, but took little convincing to return the kiss, wrapping arms around the new King of Dale. When Bard pulled away he received a curious, though not displeased, look.

“Have you been wanting to do that all night,” Thranduil asked with a smirk. He seemed already ready for the answer, a second quip waiting on the tip of his tongue.

“No.” Bard replied, smiling back, still just... happy. Thranduil frowned, and Bard continued, “I've actually wanted to throw you and that damned dwarf out on your asses, for all your bickering.” Thranduil's eyes narrowed, but Bard just laughed and put hands to either side of Thranduil's face to pull him into a second peck. “You've reminded me you're worth any petty squabbling I must endure, hîr vuin,” he said with affection.

Thranduil seemed to have to take a long moment to assess if he was being more insulted or complimented, but the affectionate kisses won out. “I am glad you have realized your error, aran nîn,” he said.

“Where did you even get that crown for Tilda?” Bard inquired suddenly.

Thranduil blinked, “I made it for her-where would I get a flower crown for a child? Do you think that is something I just have lying about?”

“You just made it? When? Right now?” It had seemed so intricate and perfect. Where had he found the time?

Thranduil nodded casually, as if it were quite natural for a king to sneak out of a crowning feast to make a flower crown for a little girl. Elves had done odder things, he supposed. “Don't worry. I'll teach her to make them herself before I leave,” he added, as if that were the most natural of concerns, “Though hers should last until spring, if she cares for it well.”

Bard chuckled and stepped back towards the feast. “We'll have time to get something sorted out for her then,” he said, pleased and smiling back around the corner towards the head table. Thranduil grabbed his arm and tugged him back into his arms.

“Where are you going, after a kiss like that?”

“We can't both disappear for too long together,” Bard insisted.

Thranduil wrapped his arms around Bard, uncaring. “And why is that?”

“Dain will get suspicious that we're planning something and become belligerent.”

This gave Thranduil pause, then he sighed, “Damn that dwarf and all his kin,” he grumbled.

“That's a harsh charge for loosing a few kisses.” Bard noted, amused.

“You thought you could get away from me for the price of a few kisses?”

Bard blinked and could feel his face heat up, though he kept his expression even. “During my crowning feast?”

“You're a king now, who would question your disappearing when you so chose?” Fingers were snaking up into his hair.

“Everyone!” Bard protested. “I should think I will get even more questions if I were to disappear now that I'm king, in fact!”

Thranduil frowned, “You're going to make me wait, aren't you?”

Bard was astonished. This was an elf; they were made for waiting. They had all the time in the world. He shook his head at the impatience, “yes.”

Thranduil let out a long, exasperated exhale through his nose, tossing his head to the side like a teen given chores when all their friends were going out. It took all of Bard's composure to keep himself from laughing. He decided, instead, to tease him further. Leaning forward, he brushed his lips over the now well exposed area of skin between his collar and his jaw.

“Don't be dramatic,” He spoke into the skin, then placed a more definite kiss, “Only until I can reasonably claim a drunken fatigue, and you can kindly offer to escort me home.” The warm breath spreading over the elf's skin made him shift minutely. Bard's calloused hand went up to the opposite side of the neck to keep him from moving away, as he placed a firmer kiss and moved lips up to his jaw, then his ear. Thranduil shivered and it was an entirely satisfying feeling under Bard's hand, “And then,” he whispered into the elf's ear, “we can pick this back up.”

With that, Bard slid away, entirely too satisfied to have left the elf in disarray. Thranduil quickly took up a scowl, hand on his neck as if to quash the residual sensations. With eyes narrowed at him, Bard turned about to return to the party.


	12. Invitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard and the Bardlings are invited to dance, but maybe not all by the right partner...

The party became rather pleasant once Bard no longer found himself stuck between the two opposing kings. Food, dancing, and music had become the main attractions. As it turned out, both dwarves and elves were quite the dancers. The wine and ale was apparently abundant enough that they even danced in the other's presence. Of course this was done on their own perspective sides, a buffer of humans between as often as possible. Sitting at the head of the room, though, Bard was afforded an excellent view of the disparate pattern of bodies and movement. The dwarves were ruckus blunch and flung each other about, but not without purpose or pattern. They knew their dances well. Elves on the other hand didn't seem to have rehearsed dances at all. There was no counting in or certain dances chosen, yet every movement knew its place in the larger context of the whole. A stray human was pulled one way or another from the middle, but generally were left as a dividing wall.

Bard noted, with some amusement, that Carandol had been convinced to betray elvish grace, which kept all the other wounded elves from the dance floor. On his crutches he certainly didn't flow with the rest of the sea of lithe limbs and twirling movements. Sigrid had been forceful, demanding he join the mirth of the night. Pulled a little closer to the humans, she, and other ladies, were more than happy to adjust the dances pattern to accommodate a more stationary member.

On the other side, Bard saw an equally amusing sight as a young dwarven woman had snatched up his son. Still growing, Bain didn't tower over the dwarves quite yet, though he likely would in a few years time. One of Dain's nieces, Bard believed, was the one who pull his son in and taught him the dance. Bain was all gangly limbs and awkward movements, as one was at that age, but he took his stumbles with good humor. Bard was proud to see him not embarrassed to learn, though he wondered how much of that good humor was due to more drinks than he should have been allowed. 

For a moment Bard's panic from earlier was reignited when his youngest was missing from her seat when he glanced up, but he was quickly calmed. She too had taken to the dance floor with an elf, but she had a slightly more elegant partner than Sigrid. Thranduil managed to look all grace and regal nature despite hunching over to reach the young girl. He swayed her and twirled her and Tilda loved it. Bard's hand rested lightly over his mouth to cover the uncontrollable grin.

 

The newly crowned king was so absorbed and watching his children that he didn't notice the woman walking his way until she was leaning over the table, staring him down.

“Bard--” A dark haired woman cut herself off apologetically bowing her head, “I'm sorry. Your Highness, I mean.”

Bard blinked. “Ms. Smith.” Bard was rising to give a proper hello to the woman he'd occasionally shared solace with over their lost spouses, most often in the form of a pint of beer and friendly arms in moments when there seemed to be none.

“Oh, Ms. Smith, me?” she asked, waving her hand at the formality, “I hope you don't start acting too polite and lordly just because I call you 'your highness' now.”

Bard chuckled, “So long as you don't 'your highness' me too often, Mary,” he replied. Bard looked around, “At least not when everyone’s far too drunk to remember improprieties from either of us,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially as he did.

Mary grinned, “O' course, Bard,” she said, leaning in as well as she did, as if using just his name would be quite the scandal. “Speaking of drunk. You've gone through quite a few cups. Still not enough to get you onto the dance floor though?” she asked.

“How do you know how many cups I've had?” Bard asked, playful suspicion in his glare the very short distance to his friend.

“Because I've been counting, of course! I know how much ale it takes you to talk ya into a dance, and this wine is better stuff that that, so I figure it should take less than half,” she accessed with confidence. “But here you are, sitting lonely at your King's table.”

“You should know it takes more than just some drinks to make me dance, Mary.”

“Aye! Which is why I've decided to add the temptation of a pretty face.”

Bard instantly straightened up to look over her head and around her, “Oh? Has one of the elven maidens asked me to a dance?” he teased.

Mary put on a lopsided scowl, “No, much prettier,” she assured.

He raised an eyebrow at her, “One of the dwarven maidens?” he asked, his fingers finding his bit of beard and mustache to run over it, “I didn't think I had enough facial hair to charm one.”

“Prettier.”

“Ah,” his smile, admittedly a bit of a drunken one, was charming nonetheless, “then I must be so lucky as to have caught your eye”

“Aye. There's my charming, drunk Bargeman,” she grinned, taking his hand.

Bard let himself be dragged into the tangle of dancers. It had been a long while since he'd danced and his feet were not used to the occupation, much less in their drunken state. Mary was a good partner for drunk feet, though, very happy to correct and laugh at every misstep, or stumble right with it, if her tipsy inclinations took her in the same direction. Bard found himself forgetting he was supposed to be a king, for a few minutes, as he was pulled around the dance floor, laughing at himself.

Mary and he were so engrossed in trying to remind his feet of their place that they missed the parting of party goers until the looming figure at its cause was standing just beside them. Bard pulled Mary to a stop just before swinging her into the elven lord that stood in the middle of the hall, human dancers giving him a wide birth.

“Hir viun!” he said, startled at the stoic expression he was met with, and throwing out more energy than was strictly needed to counteract it. How many drinks had he had? His mind was a bit too befuddled to judge. “How was my youngest as a dance partner?” It seemed like a question that couldn't possibly receive and ill response. He glanced to make sure Tilda was in good care after her dancing.

“Much more refined than her father.”

Bard barked out a laugh, but Mary was wilting under Thranduil's harsh gaze. She didn't have the years of experience working under the scornful distaste of an elf's eyes, as he had. He would have wanted to squirm away from the look Thranduil was giving her too. Why was he giving her that look?

Mary pulled free of Bard's arms and did her best curtsey, “Your majesty, Lord Thranduil,” she muttered. Thranduil didn't even nod back, he simply looked her up and down before eyes moved to her dance partner. Before Mary could escape, Bard took her hand, as he would any night she'd convinced him into some extra bit of fun, and kissed it in mock formality.

“A pleasure, Ms. Smith.”

A tight lipped smile appeared on her face and she bowed her head, “Your Majesty.” She bustled away, after one last look at Thranduil to confirm the scathing expression was still on the elf's face.

Bard was lazily turning back to Thranduil when he was surprised at a hand grabbing his upper arm. “I would think a king would have more propriety.” The words were a hissed whisper, but Thranduil managed to make them cut above the din of the crowd for Bard's ear.

“Pro-propriety?” Bard's mind reeled to figure out where his lack of decorum could have been. He was a bit drunk, his dancing poor, but he didn't think enough to insight anger. “I think I've missed something.” Bard turned confused eyes to find Thranduil's and was shocked at the anger staring back at him. “I have definitely missed something.”

The hand on Bard's arm pulled him a little closer. “You may be king, but that doesn't mean you can do whatever with whoever, whenever,” Thranduil was hissing. “Part of being a king is responsibility, to your people and to your allies and-” He wasn't stopping. It was lucky that the dance floor had parted for them, as the words, while sharp, were low enough they were likely eaten by the cacophony of the party before they reached prying ears.

A panicked feeling was rising in Bard. He had no control, suddenly swimming in a sea of confusion as his slightly sloshed mind couldn't find footing in this conversation. He couldn't discern what could have possibly caused the onslaught he was now facing. When the scolding lecture had quieted for a few long seconds, he finally was able to speak. “What in all the lands did I DO, Thranduil?”

The grip around his arm tightened fiercely for a moment, before letting go. A sour expression was still painted over Thranduil's face. “You should respect the pacts you've formed. It's the honorable thing to do.”

“Of course!” Bard found himself a bit loud and lowered his voice, “What pact did I break, though? I feel like I've missed some elvish tradition...”

Thranduil's lips pulled into a thin line, “Elves are not polyamorous creatures and we expect those we choose to be with to share that sentiment.” With no further to do, the woodland king turned about to walk away, fury still radiating off him.

Bard stared, “Poly-what? Wait-!” He caught Thranduil's wrist, hesitated, and then pulled him away from the dance floor towards a quieter alcove. Thranduil resisted at first, but with a breath he gave in, following the human to the side. His elfish disinterest was already painted over his face, though, suggesting the conversation was over already in his estimation.

“Now.” Bard said with a firmness that he had to concentrate to get. “What in damnation are you talking about?” the tipsy bowman demanded

With a petulant demeanor, Thranduil seemed unwilling to explain himself further. Bard slid his hand down from his wrist to his hand to covertly give it a pleading squeeze. Thranduil caved after a moment, “I cannot agree to a relationship that in uneven in commitment,” Thranduil started, in a deep and serious voice. “I know that it would not be easy for a human, though, to have the patience to wait time and again for a distant lover to see them, and as a king now, you will certainly have your choice of lovely ladies so keep your company. I cannot be a part of such an arrangement though, it does not suit an elvish nature, so--”

Bard finally got his thoughts together enough to interrupt, too shocked to do so sooner. “Don't have the patience? Is this because I was dancing with Mary?” he asked. His hold on Thranduil's hand tightened when the elf's eyes confirmed this without a word, “What? You think I would take a wife?”

Thranduil looked away, “I could not ask a human king to--”

“Like hell you couldn't.” Bard was perhaps not a wordsmith at the moment, but he couldn't wait for a more sober mind to speak up. “I have a son and heir. I have been a widower for nearly a decade. I can wait months at a time to see you. And no, 'human impatience' is not a suitable excuse for a human to take on an extra lover behind someone's back—Gods, do you really think that about humans?” Bard stared back as seriously as he could manage.

Thranduil opened his mouth, but his eloquence was gone, so he remained silent.

“You think I'm going to get a wife,” Bard stated flatly. Thranduil didn't make eye contact. “I have no plans of taking a wife.” Bard said more definitively, “Or courting or sleeping with anyone.” Bard squeezed the hand in his. “Well... other than you.” he laughed, a single laugh, and then shot the elf a hopeful look.

The serious expression cracked just a little, “You seemed to be enjoying yourself with that woman.”

“Elven wine and a willing dance partner will get anyone on their feet, I'd think.”

Thranduil sighed, his shoulders relaxing a little, “I don't care for how... handsy she was getting,” Thranduil said. Thranduil seemed to accept the drunken declaration for Bard's true intentions, as he thought the man a few too many drinks in to be lying.

“Handsy! Mary?” Bard instinctively scanned the crowd for her, but quickly gave up with a slight laugh, “All right, she might get a little handsy after a few drinks. I'll keep an eye on her hands in the future,” he promised. He wiggled his fingers between Thranduil's, still attempting to lighten the elf's mood.

Thranduil frowned down at the hand, but with thinly veiled amusement. “How much have you drank, King Bard?”

“Enough to be a little handsy,” he replied fingers unlacing to let them trace up his hand and under his sleeve just slightly. It was a subtle gesture, only sneaking a few inches past the hem of his sleeve. Thranduil shivered lightly. Bard grinned. “And you know, we could dance, if you're jealous,” He added.

Thranduil rolled his eyes, “Jealous? Come now,” He pulled himself up a bit straighter, tugging his sleeve down with what seemed like a self conscious gesture. “In any case, it was very clear from your earlier display that your littlest is more equipped to dance with me than you.”

“Aye, but that doesn't mean you don't want to dance with me. Clumsy feet and all. I bet you'd love to be the graceful elf, shaking your head at my piss poor foot work as ya glide me across the floor.” Bard was grinning at the elf now, who did his best to keep up haughty disdain.

“I think I'll go back to dancing with more sober partners,” he replied, turning away.

Bard caught his wrist and turned him back around, this time Thranduil didn't stop him. “My children will be heading home soon. Sigrid will take them home, put Tilda to bed....” Bard paused.

Thranduil looked Bard over, “I'd invite you to walk me to my tent at that time,” Thranduil replied. “If you so happened to be too fatigued from your wild human dancing and the walk home seems far too daunting for you, you would, of course, be free to spend the evening there,...”

Bard grinned at him, releasing his wrist. “I may be fatigued by the time I'd be leaving,” Bard offered a flimsy bit of innuendo. He'd have to sober up a bit by then so he could manage wittier commentary.

“If I have anything to say about it, you certainly will be, Bowman,” Thranduil replied smoothly. Bard let him leave then, wrist sliding through light but reluctant fingers.


	13. Gi melin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party is wrapping up, and it seems Bard might need to escort the King of Mirkwood to his tents...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Life's been crazy! @___@  
> But! I took a moment to finish this chapter up. ~~It was sitting around about 75% done anyways.~~

The party was loosing its first flock of people. While there were many that seemed determined to stay until dawn, their energy just revving up, the more average party goers had had their fill of dancing and booze and were happily starting toward new found homes and make shift beds, elven sheets and flowing tents, or dark, extravagant mountain halls. Bard decided that this was about when his children should be heading home. He wanted to make sure they'd be safely tucked away, still on edge after his littlest's disappearance earlier. After that, well, he could be at ease indulging in less responsible sorts of things.

 

Carandol had sat down after quite an admirable amount of time humoring Sigrid. If he was to be sitting, though, he evidently would be stuck on babysitting duty. Bard caught the tail end of a lesson as he arrived to gather up his children.

“Thran-du-il,” the elf was repeating with strong emphasis.

“Than-dool,” Tilda repeated back.

“Thran. Thran. With that lovely 'R' sound we've been working on.”

They'd been working on? Had Carandol been giving his daughter speech lessons? Bard walked up to the impromptu lesson, curiously eying the pair.

“Thran-doo-eel.” Carandol's eyes lit up and Tilda instantly knew she'd done well, “King Thranduil.”

“Lovely. Now let's try a proper elvish greeting,” Carandol said, wasting no time in inducting the little princess into proper courtly conduct.

“I think that can wait for another night,” Bard interrupted with a chuckle.

“Da! Carandol says he'll make me a proper princess,” Tilda informed excitedly.

“Well, good. 'Suppose one of use has to be proper, Til,” he said with a laugh, scooping her up to give her a kiss, before he placed her down again. “Go tell your brother and sister it's about time we all headed home,” he instructed, watching her bound off towards his siblings.

“So early?” Carandol asked, with a knowing smile.

“Aye. So early. Being king is a tiring job. So much feasting and merriment.” Bard shook his head in mock disapproval.

“So I hear,” Carandol replied, moving to stand, “And will you be escorting Lord Thranduil home first?” The redhead was so casual that Bard almost would have believed it was an innocent question, if he hadn't seen the spark of amusement in the elf's eyes. Bard couldn't think up a witty retort in time, “I would, of course, see that your children get home safely before you, were you to linger...”

“That would be appreciated, though you shouldn't have to go so far out of your way, Mary or--”

“Nonsense. It's a service to my king as much as you, and isn't that my job?”

“... I guess so, my friend.” Bard wasn't in the mood to argue a kindness and patted the elf's shoulder. He was ready to head off, before he remembered a question he had lingering in the back of his mind, “If you're still giving elvish lessons...” he trailed off and Carandol nodded. “Gi melin.”

Carandol looked surprised for a moment, “That's rather forward of you,” he replied.

“Is it that bad? What does it mean? I might have to ask for a proper retaliation.”

Carandol was shaking his head, amusement in his eyes, “I don't think there is exactly a 'retaliation' to such a phrase.”

“Oh...” Bard could feel his face heating up a tiny bit, “I hope I didn't say something too vulgar to you.”

Carandol's laugh trilled over the music, “Vulgar! No! Why are you worried it's vulgar?” He teased, clearly delighted at the chance.

“Well... what does it mean then?” Bard asked, on the brink of embarrassment now. Maybe he shouldn't have asked Carandol. It was clear who'd be teaching him new elvish, and it might not have been an appropriate thing to repeat to a third party.

“I love you.”

Bard started, “What?”

“No, your highness, don't worry, I'm not declaring anything. It's what 'gi melin' means,” the elf informed.

“Oh...” Bard's brows furrowed and he frowned lightly.

“That's a rather serious look for a man getting such declarations,” Carandol noted.

Bard blinked then shook his head, “Thank you for taking my children home, Carandol.”

“My pleasure, your majesty.”

It was an odd thing to hear from his old coworker, but it wasn't said with any mocking. It was somehow comforting to hear how naturally the elf used the title. He bid his children goodnight and was pleased to see that at least Sigrid had sobered up a bit. He guessed it was Carandol's doing, if only to get her to stop forcing him to the dance floor. Bain, on the other hand, had spent his time with the dwarves who treated him as they would their own prince. As a result, he was a bit worse for wear. Bard figured the thrumming headache he would have tomorrow would be payment enough. Tilda, the dear sweet girl, hadn't stolen any drinks, and he was thankful for it.

 

Bard found Thranduil easily when he was ready to go. The elven lord had been waiting with an excuse at the ready to depart the moment he saw Bard intended to leave. He had disappeared as soon as Bard was through giving his proper thanks and farewells to Dain and the dwarves. Bard was glad the elf waited a bit outside the party grounds, if only to avoid dwarven assumptions of scheming on Thranduil's part. It also made it look as if he'd only taken the time to say proper goodbyes to the dwarves, which would certainly tickle their fancy.

 

“What a coincidence to find you leaving as well,” Bard's feigned surprise would be painfully obvious, had there been a third party to listen. It was cringe worthy even without. “Do you find yourself in need of an escort to your tents, your majesty?” he inquired, his smile a bit too jovial.

Thranduil frowned at him, “Are you more drunk than before, or did I underestimate your level of intoxication earlier?”

Bard snorted, “The latter, I think.”

“Ah, well, in that case, I think I might be your escort instead, for if your feet are as bad off as the rest of you seems, I'm afraid Dale will find its king stumbling into a ditch and cracking his neck before he can find his way safely to bed. What a disgraceful renewing that would be for Dale.” His tone didn't even read as a joke. He was simply stating facts.

“Ah, I did miss the verbal abuse of elves in those years without trades,” Bard mused, starting casually away from the party, letting the music fade slowly behind them as they walked. “I think I even missed those disdainful glares you'd give me,” he noted with a chuckle.

“Abuse? Glares? Elves do not do either of these things,” Thranduil assured casually.

Bard shot him and an uninhibited look of disbelief. He was honestly too shocked to check his amusement at the blatant lie.

Thranduil's expression became a little more serious. “We do not. We are honest and wise, and just because you've had too few years to see the truth of things, doesn't make them 'abuse',” he insisted, his eyes narrowing as Bard's amusement only grew.

“And you are certainly not glaring at me right now either, eh?”

Thranduil instantly forced his expression to lighten, but his dissatisfaction was still clear, “It was a serious look, not a glare—are you trying to irritate me, Bargemen,” Thranduil suddenly accused, his feathers clearly ruffled, which was his job, not the humans.

Bard chuckled despite the sharp tone he'd won so quickly from the elven king, “Aye! Maybe a little.” They were a good distance from the party now, no longer in sight of anyone. His hand slipped ever so casually into the elf's, “Call it revenge for making me pick up barrels for ten years.” There was no real spite in his words, and Thranduil sighed and readjusted their hands so their fingers were gracefully and solidly intertwined, rather than just lightly pressed together. If they were going to hold hands, they would do it properly.

“I am already wondering at my decisions regarding you,” Thranduil said with a light sigh. “I might have chosen my company better this evening,” he looked longingly back towards the party to emphasize his point.

“Ah, but I'm a king of men, 'there is no company more fair you could imagine',” Bard quoted the elf back to himself with a far too pleased grin on his face.

Thranduil stopped sharply at this, pausing Bard as well by their joined hands. He stared at him with a look just shy of dumbstruck. “You know, you might be a bit too bold for my liking after so many drinks,” he informed. He then started walking again. Bard didn't. Instead, when Thranduil had passed, he tugged the hand sharply, spinning the elf back around. Caught off guard, the elf didn't have time to react, and a hand caught the back of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. Thranduil's eyes fluttered in surprise, but it took little prompting to get the elf to reciprocate the kiss.

Bard broke them apart sharply, getting a perfect view of Thranduil in the dim light, lips parted, eyes closed, still half way in the kiss. “See?” Bard smirked, “You like me bold.” Thranduil opened his eyes, a protest brewing behind them, but Bard was already walking them toward Thranduil's tent again. 

“In any case, I just wanted you to know how silly you can sound,” Bard replied innocently, shrugging.

“Well,” Thranduil followed, “I suppose hearing such things from a human could make many of my statements sounds rather 'silly',” he replied dryly.

Bard looked over with a raised eyebrow, but Thranduil cracked a smile and soon both he and Bard were laughing. They continued walking and Bard kept Thranduil's hand in his.

Bard wasn't really as drunk as Thranduil seemed to assume. He had made some effort to sober up in the time between their tumultuous encounter earlier and leaving the party. He let the assumption stand, though, because arguing that he wasn't so drunk and was actually just full of glee akin to that of a 15 year old sneaking out of the house after dark to run off with their crush... somehow seemed like a worse idea. The sentiment didn't fade as he walked though. The mischievous excitement still showed in the little smile he tried to hide, and the way he tugged Thranduil along is the elf's pace slowed too much. Yes, Thranduil was a little more majestic than anyone he'd stolen away with as a teen. The elf looked like a sliver of star light he'd miraculously managed to catch, but that was all the more reason to get him hidden away faster, before the night sky found him and took him back, like a prying parent tracking down their child to drag them back to bed. There was a fleeting feeling that came with the relationship with the elf. It would always be a bit against the rules.

Thranduil was staring at him, after a time, when his childish tugging had lessened, and silence fell between them.

“What?” Bard asked, the slightest twinge of self consciousness in his voice. He wasn't sure how long he'd been pensively silent.

“What has you so preoccupied?” the elf asked, not liking to be excluded, even from personal musings.

Bard smiled and shook his head. He might have reassured the elf of his commitment earlier, but Bard still assumed this all would pass somewhere in his heart. Elves were ephemeral; they were not something that stayed in the lives of men. Seeing Thranduil in the moonlight reminded him of that. He would enjoy the time he had, but the pit of his stomach told him that once Thranduil left, the illusion would break away. He was clinging to a good dream for a few more precious minutes before morning fully roused him. It was lovely, but a bit too much so to carry on forever.

“Mostly just thinkin how you're too lovely for my scruffy self,” Bard replied, though he'd cleaned himself up as well as he could for his crowning. He'd always be scruff in comparison to the elf.

Thranduil chuckled, “I don't think that observation needs such serious consideration.”

Bard pulled up their hands, still intertwined, as they reached Thranduil's tents. They stopped just before going in. He turned the hands so he could kiss the pale smooth skin of the back of his hand.

“Gi melin,” he spoke softly into the skin. In that moment it felt like such a pitiful plea to the immortal being.

Thranduil's fingers tightened in his, then loosened, and the hand dropped between them. “It was rude of me not to tell you what that means,” Thranduil said with a sigh, “Though, you've said it beautifully.” Bard had truly said it perfectly. It had made Thranduil's heart skip a beat to feel it breathed over the back of his hand. He had forgotten for a moment that he'd given the instruction to practice it himself, and felt surprisingly crestfallen at the realization. He pushed the tent open with his free hand, pulling the newly crowned king in with him.

Bard let himself be led in, the warm light of prelit candles greeting them. Thranduil became a little more real when they left the moonlight behind.

“I know what it means,” He stated plainly.

The look he received Bard could never forget. The elf's head turned about sharply and a blush had spread from his cheeks straight back to his ears. Bard couldn't help the grin that split his face. He was certain he'd never see as undignified expression on the elf king again. “Did you think I wouldn't do some research before just blindly repeating things, hir vuin?” he asked, stepping in closer.

“I assumed you simply trusted me,” he replied weakly, trying to turn away, to return his face to its usual impeccable composure.

It wasn't often Bard thought he'd have a flustered elven king to tease, and he wasn't through, “I'd trust you with my life, but not my dignity, Thranduil,” he replied, not letting him escape, pulling him back and wrapping arms around him. He needed a moment more to commit the phenomenon to memory.

Thranduil gave in surprisingly easily, letting himself be gathered up by the human. He looked down at him with the sort of intensity that had startled Bard days ago in their meetings. This time the look didn't flit away in a moment. This time Bard had cracked the elven kings composure, and they were alone, and his eyes were passion and heat and want. 

“Gi melin,” he repeated, letting Thranduil hear the words again, being able to believe them now. He barely got to finish before lips crashed into his, cutting him off sharply. He grinned against the lips, and, like that first kiss, the strength of it solidified the elf in his mind. It reminded him that they had made promises, that something tethered them together. They were allies now, Thranduil couldn't just disappear into his woods and out of his life.

Thranduil broke the kiss but as soon as he had he was dragging Bard through the main room and two others, back to where his bedding had been set up. He was so... serious. He led the human with so much purpose that Bard started chuckling.

“I have never been taken to bed with such a sense of... destiny,” Bard noted as he was turned about to face Thranduil, back to the cushioning and luxurious silken sheets.

“Well, you are a king of men; there is nothing more fair I could imagine, right?” Thranduil said causally, reclaiming the line. Bard blinked, then grinned and didn't resist as he was unceremoniously toppled over with an elegant flick of the elf's hand. He prowled forward, a knee shifting between Bard's thighs, about to pounce on Bard, but the man put up a hand. 

“Waitwaitwait-,” Thranduil stopped sharply over him, his expression just shy of irritation. “I might be a bit over dressed for this,” Bard suggested with a laugh. He hadn't even gotten his boots off, let alone the many royal layered new outfit.

Thranduil slipped back off the bed with a sigh and started instantly to disrobe the new king. He tugged and tossed boots aside, yanked shirts, and a general lack of elegance struck Bard. The king of the woodelves, who's every movement, even in battle, was elegant and perfect, moved haphazardly now, with a seeming irritation at Bard for having the audacity to still be dressed in his presence.

“Thranduil,” Bard was down to just his pants in moments, determined elven hands, even if lacking in grace, were efficient. Bard had worked to even the field, unclasping Thranduil's collar, this time with more success than his first attempt. He stopped to slip hands up to the sides of Thranduil's face. This gave Thranduil pause, his hands stopping at Bard's hips. “You seem...” Bard trailed off, not sure what to accuse the elf of being. He laughed a bit at his awkwardness. “-Anxious,” he offered after a pause.

“I am simply seizing the opportunity to have you all to myself,” the elf offered, but the hands at his hips tightened a bit. The grip wasn't lusty and wanting, but instead struck Bard as simply possessive. It was suddenly clear that he likely wasn't the only one worried about the other slipping out of their lives. They were creatures from different worlds, and, for any affection or lust or admiration between them, their connection remained tenuous. They both could feel the inevitable strain of any union between an elf and a human.

“I am yours tonight,” Bard said a few long moments later, leaning close, “So no need to rush. We have time.” Bard pulled him into a soft, slow kiss. Holding it as he casually caught Thranduil's state of undress up to his.

Forcing Thranduil to slow his pace seemed to be be just the right move. The elven king's frenzied hands stilled on Bard's chest, his urgency fading. He calmed, and with that calm came his presence and control. It suited him better to have certainty in his every movement, even if it was as minute as soft, steady swirls of his index finger over Bard's collar bone.

 

“I am concerned you already see me too well, Bowman,” Thranduil noted when Bard finally let the slow kiss end, fingers, now unoccupied, lazily played through his hair. There was no actual concern in Thranduil's voice. He had been lulled into too comfortable a state to have many concerns.

Bard smiled, “You're not hard to read.”

Thranduil caught his eyes and raised an eyebrow, “I know of a few elves who might disagree.”

“A few dwarves too I'd bet,” Bard replied. Bard could almost hear the spiteful quip before it left Thranduil's lips, so he went in for a preemptive strike. The elf found himself tossed over, staring up at a smirking human, shifting between his legs, before he could make any sort of remark. He was properly distracted when his hips were grabbed and tugged back to meet Bard's. He naturally wrapped his legs around Bards hip, and he rolled his hips into his in response. He wasn't unaware of the obvious distraction tactic, but Thranduil didn't mind the manipulation if it got them back on track for the evening. He had stolen the king away from his crowning party for a reason, after all.

 

Bard was considerably more collected than days ago, when they'd first found themselves in such an intimate situation. Of course this time he'd been expecting something other than a cold rebuffing at best and preemptive political catastrophe at worst. He savored every response he could evoke from the elf as he took his time to explore a bit more. There were a few places that he recalled having good reactions when he'd been showing off the romanticism of his mouth, but he'd been in too much of a hurry to please before. He had still been certain the elf would get bored and change his mind if he didn't hurry along then.

He lingered on his ear, nipping the lobe, seeing just how much pressure got a hitched breath and when he tensed. He had been teasing before, but he found Thranduil really wasn't hard to read; he was, in fact, very direct in his reactions. The elf might not state every demand directly, but he cetainly didn't shy away from making his feelings clear.

He breathed a laughed into the ear accidentally evoking a surprisingly harsh shove upwards. Bard laughed again, grinning as he watched Thranduil rub a hand over the ear. Bard noted not to breath into Thranduil's ear again and worked to remedy his discomfort with more pleasing distractions.

Bard meandered downwards after and apologetic kiss on the cheek. The slow pace was wearing on Thranduil, though. “We did get a late start to this, you realize,” the elf commented, his voice not displeased; he was certainly keeping himself entirely open to Bard's ministrations. He shifted his hips back in closer to Bard's forcefully, “But I would like to get along with things before morning.”

Bard grabbed the hips, looking up with a raised eyebrow, “I thought elves were patient.”

Thranduil met his gaze, “I thought men were less cautious.”

“Ha! I've seen you in battle and in bed, hir vuin; I know I won't break you.” Bard continued to tease, “I am just enjoying myself.”

“I can assure you that you'll enjoy the rest of it too,” Thranduil pushed out the man's supporting arm and tugged him forward to pull his flush up against himself. Bard had no chance at retaliation. The movement was smooth and elegant, and his lips were caught by the elf's immediately, and their hips met, clothed erections pressed against each other.

Bard's teasing fell apart instantly, and it was tossed off trousers and hurried preparations that followed. In the flurry, though, Bard thought to pause. Finger's already buried in the elf, he paused, forcing himself to collect his thoughts for a moment, considering his actions. Pulling away he looked down at the elf below him.

“I didn't mean to assume I had to--” he realized he'd barely even asked before assuming to prepare Thranduil again. It seemed suddenly selfish to assume his role. “If you wanted to do this the other way around, of course...”

Thranduil's eyes fluttered open at the sudden pause then fell to half lidded, and a smile graced his lips. “Well, that offer came quicker than I was expecting.” He chuckled and pulled Bard back down, arms wrapped around his neck, “We're a little ways in now, though,” he muttered into Bard's ear. “I'm already quite ready for you,” he purred, “but don't worry, I'll have you another time.” His hands ran over Bard's shoulders, relieving any tension from the anticipated potential switching of roles. “No need to worry. I will have you, but I will be gentle. You will be lost to want before I even take you,” he assured, his nimble fingers playing through Bard's hair as testimony to their skill. “But,” his voice was soft and deep, and sent a shiver of anticipation down Bard's spine “Right now, I don't need you to be gentle with me, Bard.”

Bard couldn't turn down such a request. In moments, Thranduil's legs around his waist, he was doing his best to keep himself together as the elf continued to murmur pleas and demands into his ear with equal frequency. He told the human just what he needed and just how well he was doing. Every thrust was matched by Thranduil's hips, his legs pulling him in. Bard came, the sweet nothings still flowing from the other king as he did.

 

Bard took a long moment to catch his breath, forehead fallen to the pillow next to Thranduil, slowly pulling out of Thranduil.

“Mmm, well, we're not quite done yet,” Thranduil noticed. Were Bard younger, maybe he'd have been ashamed he'd lost himself before he'd made the elf come as well. Bard had been surprised enough that the elf's words had had such an effect on him. He was, though, more concerned with remedying the situation, than worrying about it. Before an additional bit of snark could be added, Bard have slipped down, tossing legs over his shoulders, lips wrapping around the elf's cock without hesitation. Finger's slipped into the slick hole, quickly finding that place that made Thranduil shudder. Bard took some solace in how close Thranduil had clearly been, as his efforts were almost instantly rewarded.

The newly crowned king slipped back up a few moments later and flopped over next to the ancient one, a satisfied smirk on his lips. Thranduil matched the expression for a moment, willing to bask in his afterglow for a few long moments before he stood up to clean himself off.

When he returned Bard had sat himself up, building a cozy pillow backing for himself. Thranduil found he could slip under the human's arm and feel very much so at ease without another word. While he didn't mind quibbling with the human, it was rather fun more often than not, he found that it was really all for show. Bard truly did seem to be able to read him without words at all, or occasionally, despite them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if there are any horrendous typoes, I didn't really edit this one (not that I've _really_ edited any of these chapters... lol)
> 
> Definitely won't be another chapter until after finals. So, see y'all in a few weeks!


	14. Post Coital Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An evening together in each other's arms... of course it's spent bickering.

There was something incredibly satisfying to Bard to have, tucked under his arm something as perfectly unique. This creature could kill a dozen orcs without a thought, dared the wrath of dwarven lords and wizards alike, had lived thousands of years and would live thousands more, and could make the most perfect flower crown he'd seen in all of his years. He was all these things, and yet he seemed content under Bard's arm, playing with his chest hair and turning his head in to match Bard's calloused fingers as they rubbed across his scalp.

Despite himself, a worry knotted lightly in his stomach as he reflected on his actions. A nagging concern threatened to ruin his post coital bliss. He wondered that he might have made too much of the relationship too quickly with his elfish declaration in the doorway. It took him only a moment's glance down at Thranduil to realize that he couldn't have taken it back, though. It might have been a brief time that they had truly known each other, and some 'I love you's took time, but some were quick. They came when they were meant to, and he had meant it.

There was a long silent moment, the two kings happily basking in each other's presence. A sharp tug stopped Bard from simply dowsing off, though. Bard started, sitting up suddenly straight and bumping the head away that had been tucked between his shoulder and neck. He looked down with furrowed eyebrows from the elf to the plucked chest hair between his elegant fingers.

Thranduil couldn't ignore the questioning look. “They simply seem so unnecessary.”

Bard blinked, caught off guard by the assessment, “Well... I suppose,” he started with a lopsided frown. “But... aren't the hairs on your head pretty unnecessary too?”

Thranduil's blue eyes shot up and he actually looked offended at the suggestion that his hair didn't serve a purpose. He also couldn't find any non-cosmetic reason for his hair, though. He looked down and stated with an air of authority, “Well, elves at least have the decency to have all our unnecessary hairs in one place, not just toss it all around everywhere.”

Bard laughed at the snippy retort. Thranduil lost his edge a bit just after sex, it seemed. “Are you complaining?” he asked.

Thranduil didn't even need a moments consideration; he shook his head. “No, it's oddly charming, in fact.” He wasn't bothered by the seeming connotative contradiction.

Bard laughed again, “Well, good, I suppose. I don't think I could ever live up to an elven standard of smooth, hairless skin, even if I tried.”

“No, it would be a waste,” Thranduil agreed, “I took you on knowing your kind's imperfections would be many...” the sigh wasn't audible but it was implied.

“You see rather fond of my 'imperfections'.” Thranduil's fingers were back to Bard's chest.

“I told you they were oddly charming,” he reminded. Bard rolled his eyes, but he was sure there was no point arguing to an elf that they were being condescending. They either already knew or were likely doing it on purpose. 

“I suppose I should just take the compliment, shouldn't I?” Bard inquired, looking down at the elf.

“Of course, how else would you take it but a compliment?” Thranduil asked, and Bard honestly couldn't tell if he was being teased of the elf didn't realize his words could be ever questioned.

Bard sighed and kissed the top of his head, “What will I do without you to casually debase me?” he asked with an over dramatic sigh. He smiled down at the other. “You might have to leave an elf or two behind so I don't get too comfortable,” he joked.

Thranduil shifted up to a fully seated position, “Other elves do not get to mistreat you,” he assured. His blue eyes hardened with surprising resolve and Bard was surprised at the conviction in his voice.

“So you admit you mistreat me?”

Thranduil frowned, “I admit that men are easy to find flaws in, but yours belong to me now, so I won't be letting other elves speaking ill of them.” The protectiveness, peaking out from under the slanders against his race, was surprisingly endearing.

“I am under your protection against disparaging remarks from all elves?” Bard asked with a skeptically raised eyebrow and a smirk on his lips. That seemed to Bard like quite a hard sort of promise to keep. How would a conversation with an elf go without any snide remarks? Where they capable of polite conversation, not just polite _sounding_ conversation?

“Of course,” Thranduil said and was suddenly sitting taller than Bard. It seemed he liked to remind Bard who was taller whenever Bard would doubt his authority. Looking up, Bard met his eyes and a smiled cracked his lips. “It will, of course, be a tedious edict to enforce, given...” His eyes panned up and down Bard briefly, “Well, you, but I promise, I will--”

Bard rolled his eyes again. Thranduil was clearly staking his claim as the only one who can tease the new king, and he was no doubt determined to fulfill the quota for the entire Elven race on it. Bard wasn't having that. He reached up the short distance to Thranduil's head and yanked him down into a kiss to shut him up. “You know I could have gone home with a dozen different people from that party, and for some god forsaken reason I picked your smart mouth over any of theirs.”

Thranduil's dark eyebrows raised, “And are you reconsidering your decision?”

“No, not at all,” he pecked him again, “Only my sanity.”

“That I cannot vouch for. You did fight a dragon and wander into and elven forest as a mortal...” Thranduil noted, “Then decided to woo an elven king during a war.” Thranduil looked to him with mock accusation in his eyes.

“That last one was hardly intentional,” Bard assured.

“Hardly intentional?” Thranduil scoffed, “You came to my tents, kissed me and took me to bed-”

“It was a throne actually.” Bard only received an eye roll in acknowledgment.

“-How could that not be intentional?”

“Well, you did kiss me first, I'd like to note... and, well, technically that was all after things were settled, so it's hardly wooing you during a war.”

“And you weren't trying to get my attention before?” Thranduil asked skeptically.

“What was I doing before that?” Bard asked, defensively. He didn't like the idea that he might have been even more transparent to he elf than he had been to his daughter, who'd pushed him along the king's tent a few nights ago.

“It was obvious. You always had a quip at the ready for anything I said,” the elf accessed, as if that were explanation enough.

“And you think my brazen rudeness was flirting?” Bard asked, “Is that how you think I flirt?”

“Isn't it what you're doing now?” Thranduil asked, a calm expression with only the slightest hints of mischief in his eyes.

“Maybe that's just your horrible way of trying to seduce someone,” Bard countered.

“Horrible? It's clearly worked pretty well,” Thranduil said, a full smirk on his face now.

Bard couldn't quite deny that, as he was laying naked in the elf's bed, limbs casually intertwined. He couldn't help but protest though, instinctively arguing with the woodland king. “I was smitten way before you started verbally abusing me,” he countered. He instantly cringed. Why would he say that? How could he have found a way to bolster this creature's ego more? Thranduil was fully grinning now.

“Oh? And when did I win the bowman's heart?” he inquired, slipping in a little closer, voice a little breathier. The whole thing was so mockingly done, and yet Bard cursed himself for still being charmed even by the joke of flirtations from the elf.

Bard leaned away as best he could with arms now draped around him, which meant mostly craning his neck to the side. “It was a... slight infatuation,” he protested, “Not even a serious one. I had put it aside by the time I saw you again,” he lied, but only slightly. He had simply assured himself Thranduil had been a dream between the first time he saw him and the next.

“So, you were not even a little bit infatuated still when I came to Dale?” Thranduil asked.

“What? Oh, that's completely different. At _that_ point I was still a bit resentful about my job, so of course not,” he stretched the truth again a little. To be fair, aesthetically appreciating a king of elves and being in love with him were two very different things.

Thranduil furrowed his brow a little at this, “So, you went from infatuated to not while you were a bargeman?” he attempted to clarify.

Bard paused, “I meant between first seeing you, and when I was a bargeman,” he replied, casually. He was thrown off by the questioning look he received. He slowly added on, “In the forest...”

“When did _you_ see _me_ in the forest?” He asked frowning deeper. He had clearly seen Bard, as he allowed him to be lead out of the first those decades ago. He seemed confused all the same, though.

“In the garden.” Bard replied, at a loss at how to be more specific. Thranduil clearly knew about him petting his elk all those years ago, yet he didn't seem to recall this incident, “The second night I was in the forest I saw you in the garden.” Bard suddenly wasn't sure why he'd assumed Thranduil would have known about this. It just seemed that Thranduil was supposed to know everything that happened in his forest, in some magical, innate way. A little spark of triumph flared up in his to have truly gotten away with such a thing under his nose. “I saw you walking barefoot in the garden outside of the hall.”

“I had no idea you'd seen me... and you've been pining for me since you were just a child then...” he teased in a light, sympathetic tone. He looked down with pitying smile, as if to live so long knowing of his beauty and not basking in it was a tragedy.

Bard's triumph sputtered out and he was surprised to feel his face heating up. “I didn't pine for you,” Bard insisted.

“Of course not...” Thranduil replied, but the insufferable smile didn't leave his lips.

Bard leveled a glare at him, but it was useless. Thranduil was far too pleased with the decisions he'd made, and even the most logical arguments wouldn't dissuade him from his new found belief. Upon consideration, there seemed only one tactic that was at all likely to convince him. “I am already more than happy to admit you are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and declare my love for you, Hir vuin. Why would I bother to lie about this?”

Thranduil smile shifted to a smaller, more sincere one, “True enough...” And Bard wasn't sure if he just meant he was agreeing with the flattery or the sentiment as a while, but either way, he'd take it as a victory. 

Bard yawned, and Thranduil almost immediately followed suit, which almost seemed to bother the elf. How dare Bard have initiated the yawn and caused him to follow suit. The defiance was short lived, though, as Bard shifted down from his sitting position and Thranduil was pulled along with. Neither took much convincing to fall asleep once they'd maneuvered into each other just right. Bard found he really did fit tucked under Thranduil's chin. After the initial instinctual protest, he found it quite natural to curl into the elf's smooth chest. They drifted off ending on a sweeter note than Bard would have imagined. He was glad for it, since he was fairly sure Thranduil would be leaving now that he'd seen him crowned...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaa! Sorry for the long delay. I have had lots going on! ~~(finals, funerals, conventions, helping people move, and being sucked into cowriting other fanfics)~~. This is probably the penultimate chapter, and hopefully the last one won't take TOO long.


	15. Reentering the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year has passed since the new King of Dale took up the thrown. After many busy months of restoring a kingdom, an invitation back to the forest he'd entered so long ago is too tempting to pass up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this chapter took! It's been a crazy summer, but I hope ya enjoy it!

The golden landscapes of autumn were fading to give way to the stark, bare trees and light snowfalls which were starting early this season. A year had gone by since the dragon was slain, Ereborn reclaimed, and Dale repopulated. The previous winter had been hard on the broken people from the lake, but with Ereborn's revitalization, dwarves came pouring back to the mountain, and with drwaves came food and trade and riches. The humans quickly flourished in the dwarven economy, and the dwarves quickly took on rebuilding the stony Human city that would be the gateway to their renewed kingdom.

The elves were notably absent from Dale's affairs in the months following their army's retreat. Word came via letters in elegant script and messengers, the most welcome being Carandol. It had been quickly assessed he was the worst option for any matters which needed quick responses, though, for he had the tendency to always accept the king's offers of hospitality to their fullest extent. It was entirely likely that the elf, and friend to the royal family, spent more time in Dale than his home in that year.

 

In the first month that passed after their parting, King Bard had been too busy preparing for the winter months and dealing with dwarves to worry about Thranduil's absence. In the month that followed, though, he was rather transparent in his gloom. The elven king had not returned to visit him. The aid to his people was gratefully accepted, but every shipment that came Bard found himself a lovestruck teen, rushing to see if Thranduil headed the caravan. He never did.

The kings were still in contact, of course. As the months wore on, Bard's anxiety faded and he learned to cherish the elegantly written letters he received inconsistently, but not infrequently, from the neighboring monarch. The perfectly swirled and flourished lettering made his own look all the more cramped and sharp, but it did no good to compare one's elegance with an elf's. Their discourse was much the same in their letters as their conversations, once they'd established the communication for anything other than official business. Official business was usually covered straight away, the sweet romantics followed, and the snark was intolerable and largely left to large post script notations, but always peppered a bit throughout.

By the twelfth month, Bard had grown accustomed to their relationship being, effectively, long distance, despite the closeness of their kingdoms. It seemed there was much to be done about some trouble to the South, though the details were scarce and cryptic. 

He had much to do over the course of the year to distract him as well. Reclaiming the farmlands and distributing property, as well as handling the swell of immigrants and traveling traders into his city, and the beginnings of a government. He was glad for the aid and advice he received from the dwarves, Carandol, and often most of all, his eldest daughter. She was more of a ruler than he could ever dream of being, and his son had grown their relations with the dwarves immensely. Even Tilda seemed determined to teach herself to be useful, though he made sure she played just as much as she studied.

All these things did well to distract him during that first year, but as wintered neared again, he found himself longing to see Thranduil again, touch him, hear him. He let the sentiment slip in a letter late in fall, but had received no response for almost a month, which was the longest pause he'd yet had to endure. He had gone about his duties without pause, but with a sigh always looming behind his slightly gloomy expression.

 

It was the morning of the first snow of winter and Bard was finding an excuse not to get out of bed. Bane was practicing being king for the morning affairs, and Sigrid was overseeing him. He usually did well, but he still had the tendency to get too excited and forget realism now and again. Sigrid was quite skilled at scaling her younger brother back in those moments. He trusted the pair to handle any mundane tasks for now, or at the least, to know when to call for him.

He really should have dressed by then but shuffling through letters didn't seem to demand kingly attire, and he still had a fondness for his threadbare coat and simple clothes when he was on his own. They were just... simpler, and while he had a great appreciation for his royal attire, sometimes simple was nice.

Tucked between an invitation to a wedding the following spring of one Morwen Steelsheen to Thengel, King of Rohan, and a summary of grain taxes, there was a crisply folded letter with a familiar seal. Bard would not admit that his heart skipped a beat for the long awaited response. He broke the seal eagerly but was surprised by the brevity of the letter.

It read simply:

 

“My Dearest Bowman,

I have been away from home, and from you, for too long. I will await a visit at your convenience.”

 

It was signed in his artful signature that Bard couldn't have read even if it were in his own writing, he thought. The invitation nearly had Bard on his feet to call for his horse prepared right then. Underneath the signature, though, there was a small addition: “P.s. I may well hold you to your offers last we were together, aran nîn. My promises to your treatment still stand, of course, worry not.”

 

Bard stared at this last bit with some confusion for a long moment. He tried to sort through what promises had been made a year ago. Certainly they had promised to write, to remain allies, and to see each other again when duty allowed, but none of these seemed to fit the comment. His mind wandered back to their last night together, sorting through he details, when he remembered his assumptions in bedding the elven king. Bard had offered to exchange their rolls and Thranduil had indeed promised, well, all sorts of things for when he accepted the offer. Bard was suddenly glad he hadn't called for any attendants quite yet, as he needed a few moments to compose himself after the realization of the lascivious offer dawned on him.

 

Bard had sent a letter out almost immediately notifying Thranduil to expect his arrival soon. There was, of course, things to sort out before leaving his fledgling kingdom on its own for the first time. There were, of course, other officials in place, and he couldn't help but think Sigrid knew what she was doing more than any of them.

Sigrid complained at first when she heard her Bard was visiting the elven kingdom, and without her. She would have had to have a talking with her da, but luckily she was intercepted by announcement of Carandol and a small company's arrival. They met as both arrived to speak with Bard just as he'd finished dressing and made it to the thrown room.

When Sigrid caught site of Carandol, she knew him instantly, even by the back of his head as she entered after him. Bard honestly could not guess how she knew him from behind, and all in traveling clothes. He didn't think he'd have much luck picking one elf out from another. Yes, Carandol's red hair helped, but not when they had received other redheaded messengers before. He shook his head figured it was some inane detail that he simply didn't bother to note. His daughter's uncanny ability to always know when he friend had arrived would have to remain a mystery to him.

“Gi suilon!” she greeted in a bright voice, for a moment loosing her petulant pout she had intended to deliver to the king.

Carandol hadn't even gotten a word out to Bard before he was turning to smile at the princess, “Hiril vuin,” He replied with a smile and a bow. She curtseyed and he smiled. “I see your grace grows with every day. It is a shame you are not an elf, hiril vuin, for at this rate, you would be more beautiful than even any elf by the time you were my age,” he said wistfully.

She raised her eyebrows at the seeming compliment, “And so how graceful shall I have time to become as a human?” she inquired.

“I'm sure you will master the grace of an elfish toddler by the time you're seventy or eighty,” he replied with a little grin.

“You are all charm, sir,” she replied with a snort, before remembering her reason for coming. “Carandol, mellon, you certainly agree that I should come with my father if he's going on a trip to a foreign kingdom, right?” she asked, sliding up next to him and sneaking her arms around his elbow to tug him towards Bard, “It would be a horrible waste, when I could be learning so much from a visit with neighboring dignitaries, observe at meetings, right?” she added on, looking expectantly between Carandol and her Da.

Carandol chuckled and eyed Bard. He had a sneaking suspicion that there would not be so much in the way of trade agreements and political discussions going on on this particular journey. Of course, knowing the two kings, they would likely bicker enough to part ways with some new trade agreement or another. Either way, it wouldn't be hashed out at a conference table.

“Come, now, Sigrid, I need you here. I have yet to leave Dale on its own, and who am I to count on if something dire happens as I travel?” he asked, though he'd tried the argument already to no success. This time, though, he had Carandol, and he looked to him for aid just as his daughter had moments ago.

After a long pause the elf shrugged lightly, “I have to agree.” Sigrid stepped away, letting go of his arm, as if betrayed. “I can think of no one better to watch over Dale in your absence, King Bard.”

“So, I'm to be left behind while you run off to a majestic elven forest?” Sigrid pouted, getting to the truth of her desires. She was still not satisfied with the results, but was now out numbered and ready to sulk at her loss.

Bard and Carandol exchanged glances and Carandol stepped to the teen. “If you would allow me, Princess, I would ask to be your guest for the time being,” he requested. “And in exchange for imposing on you, I would be more than happy to assist in any way during my stay as well,” he added.

On instinct she looked to her father for approval, even though they both knew Carandol needed no invitation to be welcomed. He waved off the decision, though, “Given it will be while you are ruling in my stead, I would think the decision is yours, Sig.”

She grinned a little, but kept a lady like demeanor, “Well, in that case...” She said with an air of authority, looking Carandol over as if trying to decide if he was worthy. He quirked and eyebrow and Sigrid couldn't hold the mock regal attitude, “Le nathlam hí, Carandol. Always,” she said warmly.

Carandol inclined his head to her politely, giving her the respect of acting ruler, “I was meant to be your escort, but you will have to do without me.” He said, turning back to Bard.

“Whatever will I do without your charming explanations of the failings of man for hours on end on the road?” Bard replied dryly.

Carandol smiled as if the words weren't dripping with sarcasm. He knew the king was likely honestly a little upset to loose him as a traveling companion, even if he wouldn't admit it. “I know, but I can promise these two will not get your lost in the woods, at least, which is better than I think you'd do on your own” he replied. He didn't vouch for them in any other way. He had come with two elvish companions, and while they had bowed and greeted the king respectfully, that was all they had done. Most elves were polite, now that he had a title, but few warmed up to him as Carandol had.

 

While Sigrid still insisted on being taken next time, having her elven friend promise to stay while her father was away appeased her for this trip. Things seemed well settled and by the end of the week the King of Dale had left his city to return to the forest he had first stumbled into more than two decades ago...

 

Arriving in the twisted old forest again after so many years was rather surreal for Bard. While he hadn't been particularly well entertained by his companions on the trip over, he quickly realized how necessary they were once they lost sight of the forest's edge. It took him only a moments glance away to start trailing off in the wrong direction, as if pulled off course by some force. He thought his feet were moving forward, but his guides hadn't changed direction, so it must have been his own sense of direction betraying him. More than once he had to be called to before he wandered off.

As they walked, Bard briefly wondered what might happen if he let his mind follow that quiet calling of the forest. The chill breeze was not as harsh with his fur coats, but it still brought him back to the last time he was here. If he wandered freely, would he be able to find that warm, magical looking feast in the night again? Could he sneak around and steal a look at that perfect figure lit by moon beams, strolling barefoot in the night? Woul--

He was wandering off again. He righted himself before either of his elfish guides had a chance to scold him. It was likely best to stay with them...

 

When they arrived, Bard stared in wonder at the graceful architecture he had only seen by the lights spilling out of windows at night. There was an elegance to how the buildings formed seamlessly to the forest, and he did not bother to hide his gawking as he was lead silently into the citadel. The insides were equally grand, and blended stone and tree artfully in a way he imagined only such long lived creatures would have the patience to craft.

Bard was brought before a thrown, raised on winding root like structures. Leaned to one side, in a comfortable, superior sort of posture, sat his moon beam elf, in all his pompous glory. A pleased smirk tugged onto his lips to find the elf lounging in his imposing thrown, book in hand. Thranduil glanced up as the three of them stopped before him, the two guides stepping back, bowing, and excusing themselves as soon as they'd dropped the human off with their king.

“You said you would be here post hast, King Bard,” Thranduil said in his deep, low voice, his icy eyes remained neutral in expression, but Bard could feel them melt as they scanned over him, and that somehow made him proud.

Bard started ascending the steps to the thrown, “That's a fine way to greet me,” he replied, watching his feet on the steep steps.

“You made me wait,” Thranduil replied.

“Hardly,” Bard scoffed, “And, you know, I am a king now, remember? I do have some duties I have to make sure will be handled while I'm away.” he reminded, “And I'd like to note that that title is largely your fa--,” he reached the top step and glanced up to find Thranduil had stood and met him at the edge of the throne’s platform. He glanced up a little ways to meet Thranduil's eyes, and they were nothing by steam. Bard thought of making one last quip, but with an elven king staring down with smoldering eyes at him, he knew there was better options. Bard slid a hand around the back of the elf's neck and tugged him into a kiss. It was a better hello anyway.

Thranduil's arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him in without a moments hesitation. Bard was fairly certain if he hadn't initiated the kiss, Thranduil would have. They'd had letters to feed their bickering and conversations and more romantic thoughts over the past year, but this was one thing that letters couldn't satisfy (even with the occasional scandalous notes he felt a little embarrassed to hand off to a middle man to deliver). A letter didn't offer the feeling of wrapping arms around him and the warmth of his mouth. While it wasn't the only part of their relationship, it was the most neglected at that moment, and thus, clearly, the first thing that needed to be tended to.

Their kiss was long, but never soft and lingering. It was constantly pressing, asking for more, but the cavernous throne chamber was not quite the appropriate place for where this kiss inevitably would lead. He broke their lips apart, hands on either side of the king's face, “Is there somewhere...” he looked about, “With less of an echo for me to greet your more thoroughly?” Bard asked playfully.

Thranduil looked him over and seemed to be seriously considering returning the favor from their last thrown room encounter, but thought better of it as he brushed past Bard. “Come, King Bard, I'll show you your accommodations for your visit,” he offered, gracefully descending the steps with ease. Bard followed after a little more carefully but quickly caught up, falling into pass next to Thranduil.

Bard would have started up a conversation, but the halls and bridges of this place were nearly as treacherous seeming as the forest itself, and Thranduil moved as if on a mission. Bard could only chuckle and was pleased when Thranduil had no objection to taking his hand as they walked.

 

Bard was led into well furnished chambers, through a study and living area, and while it was all elvish beauty and cleanliness, it all seemed much too... lived in for guest chambers. He glanced around the rooms and then to Thranduil, “Are these your rooms?” he asked with sudden realization.

“Of course,” he replied “Where else would I have you?” he asked, “Did you expect me to steal away from my chambers every night to see you?” he pulled the human into his bedroom, “Or were you not expecting to share my bed?” his tone showed clear disapproval at the second option.

Bard wasn't sure what he had assumed. He knew that if Thranduil visited him, they would have to be more secretive about their affairs. While he might be able to convince his people not to be bothered by his relationship with a foreign king, he doubted the dwarves would ever forgive him for bedding an elf. The idea of waking up tucked under Thranduil's chin, wrapped up in his arms, well, it was far too appealing to pass up now that they actually had the opportunity.

“I suppose... I figured we'd simply be in conference until late in the evenings,” he said with a chuckle.

“I imagine we will be,” Thranduil agreed, fingers casually undoing his travel clothes.

Bard smirked and let himself be undressed, watching Thranduil's deft fingers do their work. He soaked in the loveliness of this immortal being as his overcoats were pulled off and he reveled in the fact that he was still so enamored with him, a human, a bargeman...

He realized Thranduil had gotten him down to his undershirt during his musings and laughed, “You are not wasting any time. It still surprises me how impatient elves are,” he teased.

“I think a year is long enough to try any creatures patience,” Thranduil defended.

“You could have visited,” Bard reminded, but Thranduil shook his head.

“There were things that needed tending to,” Thranduil assured. Bard gave him an inquisitive look. “Things that can be discussed later,” he insisted, tugging at his shirt buttons. Bard accepted this, for now, as he was tossed back, shirtless, onto the bed. Bard was scooting back on the bed, but barely got anywhere before his ankle was caught and he was slid back to the edge where Thranduil was, one knee on the edge of the mattress, sliding easily over the silky sheets. He bit back a smile at the serious, almost predatory look Thranduil was giving him. He didn't want the elf to think he was mocking him, putting on a giant, goofy grin in response to his prowling. It simply would never cease to please him that the elf could feel so passionate about him.

Bard was so distracted by the steamy blue eyes that stared him down, that he could have nearly missed that fact that the elf had gotten him completely naked without taking off a shred of his own clothing. It seemed to happen to him a lot.

“This seems a little uneven,” Bard protested, lifting himself up onto his elbows. Thranduil didn't seem to follow, “You're a bit over dressed for the occasion, I think,” he clarified.

Thranduil slipped forward on the bed, pushing him back over, “I'm much more concerned about you, at the moment.”

“I've been on the road for days to see you, can't you indulge me and let me see all of you?” Bard requested, and it was clear that he wasn't going to be very cooperative until he had Thranduil equally undressed, so the elf pushed off him and stood, walking over to the dresser to the side of the bed. Bard turned on his side, head in his hand, watching him, pleased, as he dropped his overcoats and robes with a grace that only an elf could manage while impatiently acquiescing to a lovers 'selfish' request. He dropped off extra jewelry in appropriate locations, laid his clothes down, and snagged a ribbon on his way back over to swiftly tie his hair back behind him. It took only moments.

“Are you happy, aran nîn?” Thranduil asked, impatience clear in his tone.

“Consider me properly indulged,” Bard agreed, rolling back over as Thranduil moved back and quickly found his way between his legs. The king's heart beat a little faster, anticipation tinged with nervousness. He knew the elven lord would take good care of him, of course, but it would be a new experience nonetheless.

Thranduil's hands slid up his thigh, but he paused, “You're tense, bowman,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. He slid up further, pressing their lips together, “You'll enjoy this sooner, if you're more relaxed,” he purred into his lips. He seemed doubtless that he'd please Bard in the end; to the elf it was just a matter of easing the human into it. 

Bard chuckled at the confidence, though it shouldn't have surprised him. He cupped Thranduil's smooth cheeks and running fingers over his jaw. There was something comforting in how soft and yet strong it was, like all of the elven king. And it did, actually, put him at ease. Thranduil broke their kiss to move back down Bard, as hands ran over Bard's thighs, teasingly close to his erection. The ex-bargeman had a hard time simply letting Thranduil take charge here. He felt, instinctively, that he should be contributing more. The elf had a commanding nature about him, though, and his actions made it clear Bard would be sitting back and enjoying himself.

The king of the woodland realm did not rush, though he had practically dragged the ex-bargeman to bed minutes after he'd arrived. His lips moved down Bard's thigh, then back up. Bard suppressed the little, electric shiver that ran through him unbidden as the teasing mouth nipped high on his inner thigh. A hand shot to Thranduil's head, but it cut short and simply ran through the silky hair. He wasn't good at just letting someone lavish him with attention. A smile pressed against his skin and Bard braced himself as the elf sucked at the skin that had just won him a shiver.

“Thran--” Bard puffed out in protest, but the lips moved on, though only after surely leaving a mark that, thankfully, would never be visible to any public scrutiny. The lips teased until Bard gave a more serious grunt of a protest. With a hum against the hipbone he was currently teasing, Thranduil accepted the simple, inarticulate request, moving his attentions to Bard's erection.

During the teasing, the man had managed to lose track of his elven lover's right hand, but it soon made a reappearance, as a slicked finger teased his entrance. Nerves might have taken over, but it was hard to worry about much of anything with the elf's lips around his cock. The finger cautiously found it's way into him. The feeling was odd, but Thranduil let the man adjust slowly, moving with the languidness that Bard had always imagined should be characteristic of an immortal, a creature with all the time in the world for even the most mundane of tasks.

He had let himself be eased into a second finger, starting to relax into the feeling, when they twisted slightly, searching for something. Bard gasped, not caring enough to hide it, in fact, he was sure it pleased Thranduil just that much more to hear the reaction of his efforts. The fingers paused before finding the place again, and Bard let out a shaky breath. Nothing in Thranduil's ministrations were rushed, but he kept a pace that kept Bard from quite catching his breath, edging him slowly but continuously forward.

Thranduil pulled his lips off Bard long enough only to glance up at him him with a smirk before he swooped down to bite at the tender bit of thigh he'd abused earlier, making the human jolt and tense, a slight breathy curse coming from his lips. It tipped him over into desperation, after all the slow, steady building.

“Thranduil,” his voice was a mix of a plea and a serious command, somehow expressing both, and making the elf chuckle and he pulled his fingers out. Despite himself, the loss evoked a throaty complaint of a noise from Bard, which only amused the elf more.

“What was that for?” Thranduil murmured in a low, deep voice, as he pulled himself up along the human king's body. He got a grunt of a response, but the elf wasn't going to accept a wordless answer this time, “Hmm?” he asked, as his face leveled with Bard.

Bard grabbed him into a kiss and pushed hips up to meet the elf's. The kiss was fierce and passionate and was as expressive as the grunt, but the elf was stubborn.

“Is there something you want, bowman?” he asked into the lips. Their erections rubbed together with a teasing roll of Thranduil's hips, but that was all.

“You know precisely what I want,” Bard accused with slightly narrowed eyes, his brow creasing with that slightly too serious look he was prone to make. He knew the elf was being intentionally obstinate. 

“Mmm... that is a possibility,” the elf murmured back, kissing at the well groomed scruff on his cheek. His hand went back almost to its previous endeavor, a finger teasingly playing over the entrance. “But, I do believe I said I'd have you pleading for it...” he reminded, “Do I?” he asked, lips nearly at his ear.

Some part of Bard wanted to be cheeky and argumentative, it was what he usually would have done, but it'd been a year, and Thranduil had done his job damn well. Bard lifted his head just enough to nip at the pointed ear, which he'd learned was sensitive, causing the elf to tense noticeably. That was all the fight he was willing to give at that moment, though.

“You do,” he assured, “Begging or pleading, hell, you can have me however you like,” he assured, “But you had better have me quick because if you don't I'm tossing you over and it's happening regardless,” he warned. This apparently gave Thranduil pause.

“...We'll have time for that later, I imagine,” he murmured finally and tugged up Bard's hips. Bard was only given a moment to actually imagine his threat coming to fruition before Thranduil was pushing into him. He, for a moment, caught the moan in his throat, but decided quickly that Thranduil'd earned anything he could wring out of him. The sound clearly pleased the elf, winning Bard a pair of lips prepared to devour what other noises he could produce from the human.

Thranduil did start slow and steady, but it took little prompting to convince him to move faster, let alone the choked but demanding request from the man beneath him. His thrusts quickened, and with so much teasing Bard barely could keep himself together. He found himself burying his face against Thranduil's shoulder, his mouth gasping against his collarbone as he came.

His elven lover slowed as he finished, then moved to pull out, still hard, seeming ready to finish in some other way, but Bard's hazy mind would have none of that. Though his muscles felt like they lost quite force, still as dazed as the rest of him from his orgasm, he wrapped a leg around Thranduil's hip, and with the softest of chuckles against his temple, Thranduil took the hint. Oversensitive and drained, Bard was satisfied to have the elf come buried in him before carefully pulling out and flopping to the side of his panting, sweat slicked human.

After a moment he grabbed a handkerchief from his side table, cleaning them up with a lackadaisical air before he settled back down. He pulled out the tie from his silky hair, seeming to know Bard's hand would be running through it in a second. He let his head settle onto Bard's chest, turned to the side as Bard remained on his back.

A pleasant silence passed between them, and Bard could feel the edge of his consciousness drifting away...

“I'm glad you agreed to visit.”

Bard was surprised by the soft comment, sitting up slightly, “What sort of fool refuses such an invitation from a king of elves?” he asked, amused.

Thranduil closed his eyes, fingers playing with a bit of chest hair. A please smile quietly graced his mouth, “A foolish man indeed,” he agreed, “But, even if the answer was obvious, that doesn't mean it cannot make me glad.”

“You are much sweeter than usual,” he noted, pushing back the soft locks and meeting the watery blue eyes that looked up at him, “I'll have to remember this as a good way to placate you in the future,” he teased.

Thranduil closed his eyes, a larger grin now in place, “I would not work to dissuade you from that idea.”

“Gi melin,” Bard murmured warmly.

“I love you as well, Bard,” Thranduil replied quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed my excuse to write a bit of smut and a lot of banter. ♥
> 
> If you enjoyed this, try out my [Barduil AU about a florist and a tattoo artist falling in love](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288635) (or at least bickering about something inconsequential as they pretend not to flirt), which, as all my projects do, got way out of had.


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